


Hellhound

by Wanderer



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, London, M/M, Nazis, World War II, historic AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2018-04-14 05:22:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 140,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4552227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A World War II AU in which Finch and Reese meet in England and work to defeat Nazi Germany.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>Finch took his first long, hard look at the man who would (perhaps) be guarding him.  He was worth a look; or two or three, Harold thought.  In fact, if he'd been less wary, he would've been tempted to stare openly at the young soldier.  Sgt. John Mars of the SAS was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and deep-set blue eyes, high, elegant cheekbones, a square jaw and sensual mouth.  He looked strong and capable, and he was also strikingly handsome.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ch. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scully 1138 and Mizwidget](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Scully+1138+and+Mizwidget).



> This is a POI WWII AU, so there are some war-time terms and acronyms in it. I've posted definitions for the most important ones below. This fic is also a blend of fact and fiction. I did a lot of research on WWII to write it, and the events of the war follow their historic progression. But I changed a few things, including the dates of certain events, so I could tell the story the way I wanted to. Also, please note that John Reese goes by his own name in the first part of this story, and since that isn't part of canon, I gave him the last name of Mars. 
> 
> And if anyone is interested, I made a companion book of pictures to go with this fic, manips of John and Harold and historic pics that relate to their history in this fic. If you'd like to find out more, go here: http://falconwing.livejournal.com/ It will take you to the top post at my lj, where you can find out the details about all my POI artbooks and how to email me.
> 
> This fic is meant for adults. There's one very violent scene in it, and I'll post a note at the beginning of it so fans won't be unpleasantly surprised. 
> 
> The first part of this story is both het and slash, on the part of dif. characters, but the slash element consists only of pining. So I think both slash and het fans can read the first chapters of this fic. When it becomes slash only, it will be tagged as such. The art for this fic is mine as well.
> 
> Lastly, this is a long story, which I wrote to honor soldiers and resistance fighters everywhere, who sacrificed so very much to fight the Nazis in that war.

 

**OSS:** Office of Strategic Services, created in 1942.  The U.S. Intelligence Service, headed by Major General William “Wild Bill” Donovan.  During WWII, its London station Chief was Col. David Bruce. 

 **MI6** :  A dept. of British Military Intelligence responsible for foreign operations, which reports to the Foreign Office.  Also known as “SIS”, or “Secret Intelligence Service”.  Headed by Col. Stewart Menzies, who was in charge of the 'Ultra' project in WWII.  One of its most important tasks was to break the secret codes generated by the “Enigma” coding machine, which the Germans used to encrypt wartime orders and communications. 

 **MI5** :  A dept. of British Military Intelligence responsible for domestic counterintelligence, locating spies, etc.  Reported to the Home Office.

 **SAS:**   “Special Air Services”. British Special Forces in WWII.  In this fic, they're an elite British Army division, with added training devised by MI6.  Soldiers who are trained as Paratroopers and covert operations specialists.

 

 

**Hellhound**

by Wanderer

 

Chapter 1

_November 1943, Gestapo Field Station, Casablanca, North Africa_

 

“Who are you really?  Ein American?  Ein Englander?  A _Jew?”_ the taller Gestapo officer barked.  Each question was accompanied by a hard, back-handed slap to Sgt. John Mars’ face.  “ _What are you_?  Are you a spy?”

 _Keep flirting with me like that, and I just might show you,_ John smirked to himself.  But he didn’t say it out loud.  His SAS instructors had often told him he was a wiseass, but he knew better than to reveal it – or any of the other, much deadlier things they’d taught him -- at the moment.  He wasn’t Jewish, but he _was_ a British agent; and if he didn’t curtail his wiseass tendencies a bit, he wouldn’t make it out of here.

So he protested, “No!  I just work at an auto parts factory.  I'm not a spy!”

He did his best to look and sound both innocent and scared, because all his assets -- his whole network -- were depending on him.  Men, women and their children, too.  If he failed to convince them of his innocence or to escape, or if the Gestapo broke him (and everyone broke, if you gave the bastards enough time to do it), then everyone who'd helped him would all be arrested and shot, along with their families.

Except for Kara Stanton, damn her.  Mars was sure she'd be safe, because she had to be behind this.  She was the one contact he’d met in Casablanca who he’d deeply distrusted from the first.  But she was his partner Jerry Stills’ contact, not his.  Which meant Stills was probably in this up to his fucking eyeballs, too. 

 _Maybe he’s the one who shot me_ , John thought grimly.  Right before the Gestapo showed up to arrest him, someone had put a bullet in his arm.  He suspected that the shot, which had come from an upper window of a nearby building, had been meant to hit him somewhere more vital to keep him from running or fighting, so the Gestapo could arrest him more easily.  But despite the wound, he'd bolted anyway, and forced the Gestapo to chase him for nearly two hours.  John hadn’t made it easy for them to capture him. 

 _But maybe Stills helped, along with Stanton_ …

Stills had vouched for Stanton, of course.  When they first came to Casablanca, he'd told Reese she was a British ex-pat who he’d known for years, and that she was cozying up to the local Nazi officers in order to get information she could pass on to British intelligence.  But John had wondered why Stills hadn't mentioned Kara back in England, if he'd known her for so long.  Besides, there had always been things about her that bothered John.

Her personality, for one.

The first time they’d met, Kara had slinked up to him, looked him up and down avidly, thrust out a curvy hip and cooed, “Ooh.  Tall, dark and dangerous.  Just the way I like ‘em.”

John had just lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed by her obvious come-on.  “Really.  You're so subtle, I never would’ve guessed.” 

For a second, Kara’s eyes had narrowed with fury at his sarcastic response to her charms; then she'd faked a smile. “Subtlety,” she'd shot back scornfully, “is for the _weak_.”

“Is that so.”  Filled with an instant, intense dislike for the woman, John had turned away from her, not wanting to spend another moment talking to her. 

It hadn't stopped her from trying to seduce him, though.  Unused to being turned down, she'd taken his aversion as a challenge, and to John's annoyance, whenever they met, she'd continued to proposition him.  But she'd always lost at that game, and Kara hated to lose. 

In retrospect, John thought ruefully, he probably should’ve expected that she’d eventually hand him over to the Germans.  _Hell hath no fury_ , and all that.  Trained to size people up fast, he’d instantly pegged Kara Stanton as cruel and manipulative, with a big helping of bitterness and deceit thrown in.  She liked to play with people, to control them; and John had quickly come to suspect that she was fucking Nazi officers for the fun of it.  Not to get intel for the British or the Resistance, but because it gave her a sense of power to learn their secrets, and because she could use them to her own advantage.  Her efforts to charm him failed, and he’d never trusted the intel she’d given Jerry either.  It'd just never amounted to much.  Stanton was far too cunning and manipulative to be trusted, and John had avoided her.  He should’ve guessed that she’d take revenge for his rejection in the cruellest way possible.  He just hadn't expected that his own partner would join in her betrayal.

He’d wondered about his partner on occasion, though.  Even before they’d left England, really.  Stills was  competent, or he'd never have made it in SAS; but there was just something about him....  A coldness at his core that John disliked.  His insistence that John trust Stanton, who John detested and had never even met before they came to Casablanca, had bothered him too.  He'd questioned the judgment of a man who'd trust a snake like Kara Stanton.  Plus, he’d glimpsed Jerry slipping out of their apartment late one night, when he’d thought John was sleeping.  Mars had gotten up and trailed him, seen him knock on Stanton’s door, and kiss her when she opened it.  Then she'd drawn him inside. 

At the time, he’d just shrugged it off.  Figured that Jerry was just sleeping with her.  She was attractive enough, he supposed -- if your taste ran to snakes.  Personally, every time Mars was in the same room with Kara, the cold, hungry way her eyes slid over him gave him chills.  It made him long for his wife; for her warmth, honesty and sweetness, qualities that made Jessica utterly different from Kara Stanton.

Now that it was too late, John realized what a mistake he’d made, assuming Stills was just sleeping with Kara.  He hadn't wanted to believe his partner was a traitor; that either of them were.  But Stills must’ve gone over to the other side -- become a double agent for the Germans, probably at Stanton’s urging.  When he'd seen them meet, they'd probably really been exchanging intel; or maybe even plotting to betray him.     

It would explain how the Gestapo had hunted him down so fast, after he'd blown up that airfield a couple of nights ago.  He'd infiltrated it after midnight, masked and gloved, with two local resistance fighters, after drugging its guards.  They hadn't been seen, and they hadn’t left any evidence behind that would’ve tipped the Gestapo off to their identities, either.  He’d never been sloppy, and he'd made damn sure the others weren't, either.  So there was no way anyone could've identified any of them. 

The fact that the Gestapo came for him anyway was a strong sign that he'd been betrayed; and Stills and Stanton were the only ones who knew where he lived, something he'd carefully kept secret even from his own spy network. 

He wondered cynically what the Germans had given them, in return for his capture.

If Jerry _had_ betrayed him, it meant that Mars was already screwed.  The Gestapo already knew he was a British agent, and they were just slapping him around in the hopes that he’d give up some vital intel before they killed him -- or worse, slowly tortured him to death.  John knew they still wanted the names of everyone he’d been working with, because if the Gestapo had known their identities, they’d’ve been hauled in for questioning right along with him.  The Germans would’ve wanted him to see that, to rub his nose in the fact that his whole spy network had been blown, and that he’d gotten everyone who’d helped him arrested, too.  To his relief, that hadn’t happened; and it wasn’t likely to, for two reasons.  One, because John hadn’t kept his codebook regarding his spy ring in his little apartment where the Gestapo could find it, and two, because even Stills didn’t know his codebook's location, or any of John's current network. 

After Stills had introduced him to Stanton, Mars' doubts about Stills had deepened.  So John had begun working alone months ago.  Using the excuse that they could do twice as much damage to German interests in Casablanca if they worked separate sections of the city, he’d kept his group of helpers and local resistance fighters secret even from Stills.  He'd kept all their information in a little notebook he'd written in a complex, “dictionary” type of cipher that Finch had taught him.  Slipping in with a picklock after hours, he’d hidden the notebook beneath a loose floorboard in a café he frequented, where he could easily get it when necessary, but where the Gestapo wouldn't find it, even if they raided his apartment.  Even if they did somehow find it, in order to decipher it, they’d need the book that he’d used as his key; and that was a common car manual his boss kept on a shelf behind his desk, at the factory where John worked.  The manual was a perfect choice.  It was common and cheap, something he needed for his work and could borrow without suspicion, and not a book anyone would ever suspect an agent would use as a complex cipher key.  Plus, John had daily access to it.  He could easily steal it and bring it back to his little apartment at night, if necessary, and then return it to work the next morning, without anyone even knowing it’d been gone.  The same went for his notebook on his spy network.

He thanked God for his wariness and caution regarding both books now.  Due to someone’s betrayal – most likely Stills and Stanton’s -- the Gestapo had managed to get their filthy hands on him, though John hadn't exactly come along quietly.  But the betrayal and arrests would stop with him.  They weren’t going to get his notebook or its key, or capture anyone John had recruited to help him.  British SAS Sgt. John Mars, more recently known as John Reese, among other aliases, wasn’t about to let that happen…

 

_Bletchley Park, England_

_March, 1942_

 

“Finch!  Mr. Finch, wait!”

Harold Finch turned reluctantly on his way up to Hut 8, where his department at Bletchley Park was located.  Lt. Mark Snow huffed up the steps behind him, with a tall man Finch didn't recognize.  Snow was the American Army liaison officer who acted as a go-between for the scientists at Bletchley Park and the U.S. military.  His job was to convey messages, equipment, decrypted German intelligence and whatever else British Intelligence decided to share with the Americans.  But Finch had never liked him; and he frowned as he waited for Snow to reach him.  The man was a scoundrel, a cold, clever opportunist who both he and Nathan Ingram had instinctively mistrusted.  Finch had heard rumours recently that Snow was running a small black market operation on the side, in stolen goods that he’d pilfered from American Army supplies. 

Those rumours hadn’t surprised Finch, but he hadn’t done anything about them because he’d been busy with far larger problems.  However, he’d already made up his mind to look into it when the time was right.  Impatient at being kept from an important task by the rude, pushy, probably larcenous Lt. Snow, he wondered if the right time had just come.

More than once, in his darker moments, he’d found himself wishing that Lt. Snow had been the one who’d been working late at Bletchley and been killed by that German bomb, instead of Nate.  He tried not to think like that too often, though.  Though Nathan Ingram, his dearest friend for many years, was dead, he knew Nate wouldn’t have approved of him wishing that another man had died in his place – even someone as unpleasant as Lt. Snow.  Nathan had been the fairest, most decent man Harold had ever known.  Smart, generous and idealistic, he'd convinced Finch long ago that they needed to do more than just make money from their prodigious gifts. 

 _We need to find a way to improve things, Harold_ , he'd said.  _Find a way to help people, use our work to make the world a better place.  Or else what's the point of living?_

What, indeed.  In the dark months since Nathan's death, Finch had often remembered those words, but he'd been so grief-stricken he'd found it hard to come up with reasons for living himself.  Handsome, golden-haired, charming and almost as smart as Harold himself, Nathan Ingram had been so very dear to him.  He'd been one of the few people who could not only understand Harold’s thought processes, but also draw him out of himself, ease his loneliness, lighten his mood and make him laugh.  Dear God, how Harold missed Nathan’s mischievous smile, his ready laugh…

Luckily Finch still had his work, which was important to the war effort, and which he felt was his contribution towards helping humanity.  When the war began, he and Nathan, who was a brilliant engineer, had both joined MI6 to use their work to fight the Germans.  Working together at the Government Code and Cyphers School at Bletchley Park, they'd built a complex machine Finch had designed, with Nathan's help, to decode secret messages used by the German military.  They'd called it 'the bombe'.  Well, Nathan had, anyway. 

Harold still remembered how Nate had grinned, half giddy, half loopy with elation and exhaustion when they'd finished it.  “We'll call it the bombe', Harry, because its impact on the war will be bigger than anything the RAF will ever drop on the Nazis!  This baby of ours is going to win the war for us, my friend!” he'd insisted, his eyes shining with pride and excitement.  Nate had always loved flashy nicknames, and though Harold had rolled his eyes at that one, he'd known Nate was right about the importance of the machine they'd created.  So he hadn't objected, and the name had stuck. 

Now, except for his hand-picked group of coders, Harold carried on their work with 'the bombe' alone. 

At the moment, though, he couldn't allow his grief over Nate's loss to distract him.  Something was up.  Snow was hurrying to meet him like a man on a mission, and knowing him, it was bound to be unpleasant.  And who was the tall, dark-haired man with Snow _?_   Though Finch was familiar with most of the personnel at Bletchley, at least by sight, he’d never seen this man before.  Though he was neatly dressed in a dark suit and tie, Finch guessed that the stranger wasn’t a scientist.  He’d always been observant, and he'd seen enough soldiers in the past few years to be familiar with their look, in or out of uniform.  His sharp eyes saw military discipline in the square set of the stranger’s shoulders and the determined way he moved.  Finch also noted that unlike Snow, who was puffing a bit as he climbed the steep front steps, the dark-haired man leapt up them effortlessly.  Finch thought he must be an athlete, as well as a soldier.  Finch could only envy that.  Even before he’d been injured, he’d never moved with that sort of lithe, fluid grace. 

When the two men reached him, Snow said, a bit breathlessly, “I’ve been... sent to inform you... that you’ve been assigned a bodyguard, Mr. Finch.” 

Finch snorted.  A bodyguard, indeed!  Ridiculous.  “No thank you.  I don’t need one,” he said shortly.  He was already a bit late, and he had far more important things on his mind than Lt. Snow’s foolishness.  He’d started to have doubts about the coded messages they’d been receiving lately from some of their agents in Holland.  Last night, he’d finally realized just what it was that’d been bothering him about their transmissions; and he’d figured out a way to determine if they’d been captured and compromised by the Nazis.  He had to send a clerk to find out if those spies’ first encoded messages had been kept, and have them brought to him for comparison --

He started to turn away, thinking the subject closed, but Lt. Snow said loudly, ''Hold it, Mr. Finch!''

Annoyed, Finch shot back, ''I think not.  I'm late, Lieutenant,'' and went back to climbing the steps upward. 

Snow suddenly moved in front of him, forcing Finch to a halt.  “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Finch.”  a nasty smirk hovered around the edges of Snow’s mouth.  Clearly, he’d anticipated Harold’s refusal, and was enjoying harassing him.  “You don’t have any choice.”  He jerked a careless thumb at the tall man beside him, who’d been watching their interchange silently.  “This is Sergeant–” 

“Sorry, but there’s been some mistake,” Finch interrupted impatiently.  “I never requested, nor do I need a bodyguard.  We already have security here, as you know.  There are armed guards in the hallways at all times, and every room in every building is checked at night.”

Lt. Snow narrowed his eyes.  “Yes, I know!”  

“Fine, then I’ll be going.”  Finch began to turn away again; but again, Snow prevented it. 

“No you won’t!” he snapped. When Finch moved up a step anyway, Snow reached out, quick as a striking snake and caught at his arm, pulling Harold off balance.  Snow had always been rude and arrogant, but he’d never actually grabbed Finch before, and it caught him off guard.  He swayed, teetering precariously at the edge of one of the steep stone steps.

Just as he lost his balance, his arms windmilling outward desperately, big, strong hands caught Finch, bracing him, then righting him gently but firmly before letting go.  Startled, his heart still in his mouth from his near fall, Finch blinked up into the blue eyes of the dark-haired stranger who'd stepped forward and caught him.  He'd not only kept him from falling, he'd somehow managed to knock Snow’s hand off of Finch's arm, in the process.  He’d moved so quickly and smoothly that it was all over before Harold had time to blink.  He stared, stunned and shaken, into a pair of handsome blue eyes.  But before he could even thank his rescuer, Snow interrupted again. 

“Like I said, this is Sgt. Mars, Finch.  And you’re his new assignment.”

Sergeant Mars?  _Assigned_ to him?  Finch’s bit of satisfaction at having correctly deduced that the man who’d probably just saved him from a nasty tumble down the steps was, in fact, military was lost in his displeasure at Lt. Snow’s manhandling and attempt to give him orders.  He glared at Snow.  ''Lieutenant, I've had enough of this!  If I want a bodyguard, I’ll bloody well ask for one -- ''

“Like I said, it’s not up to you,” Snow interrupted impatiently.  “I’ve been _ordered_ to assign Sgt. Mars here to you.”

“Ordered by whom?” Finch asked icily.

Snow grinned nastily and played his trump card.  “The order was signed by both Col. Menzies _and_ Col. Bruce.”

Finch blinked, taken aback.  The head of the SIS itself, and the Chief of the OSS’ London Station!  Bloody _Hell_ , he swore to himself.  He hadn’t expected that.  If the order really had come from the top of both British and American Intelligence – if they’d made protecting him a joint operation – then he had no choice but to accept it.  He worked for MI6 after all, and they were cooperating with the Americans. 

Still, he wondered what had prompted this, or if Snow was just attempting to play some strange sort of practical joke.  But no.  Surely he wouldn’t dare to invent a phony order and attach the names of the Chiefs to it like that as a prank – the consequences for him would be disastrous. Still, one never knew…  “Show me the order, Lieutenant,” Finch said tersely.

Snow just smiled his usual cold smile and shook his head.  “My C.O. gave it verbally.  You want to see something in writing, you'll have to contact headquarters.”

Finch stifled his irritation.  “I intend to,” he said coolly.  “In the meantime, tell me.  Why have I been singled out for extra protection?”

Snow smirked at that. “Apparently, the fact that the head scientist who’s in charge of breaking German secret codes is Jewish, doesn’t sit well with the Nazis.  There’ve been threats on your life recently.”

The 'Ultra' project and Finch’s  involvement in it were top secret; and the fact that he was Jewish was something Harold had made sure that very few people knew.  But he wouldn’t be surprised if word of all that had been leaked to the Germans anyway.  There were spies everywhere these days, on both sides, and someone could always be paid to talk.  But Snow clearly expected Finch to be so frightened by his news, that he’d welcome having a bodyguard.  Instead, Finch laughed curtly.  “Everyone in the free world is in danger from the Nazis at the moment, Leftenant.  In case you hadn’t noticed,” he added tartly, because he despised Snow.

The Lt. just shrugged, but his eyes turned even colder, the usually hidden malice in them showing openly.  He cocked his head and smiled, a shark-like, unpleasant grin.  “I noticed.  It’s too bad your buddy Ingram didn’t.  He’s partly the reason you’ve been assigned a bodyguard.  You remember what happened to him, don’t you?”

Snow’s deliberate cruelty shocked Finch into silence, like a poisonous dart driven into his heart.  Of course he remembered Nathan -- his best friend, whom he’d loved for years.  Harold’s love had been hopeless since Nathan was firmly, even enthusiastically heterosexual, but their friendship had been deep and long lasting all the same.  They’d liked each other the moment they’d met at Cambridge, and been inseparable for years afterward, all through Nate’s short-lived marriage and divorce.  Harold had loved Nathan Ingram far longer than Nate’s own wife Olivia had.  He still missed him terribly.

Harold almost wanted to strike Lt. Snow, for even suggesting that he might’ve forgotten Nathan.  As if he ever could.  He had few real friends, and Nate had been the closest one.  The only person in London who he’d felt he could be honest with – about most things, anyway.  His death had left a huge void in Harold’s life and heart, that he suspected would never be filled.

Still, he wasn’t going to hit Snow.  After a few seconds passed, Finch controlled his grief and anger, applying reason to the situation as always.  Lt. Snow was a sly, vicious lout, not nearly as clever as he thought he was, and not worth responding to like that.  Finch considered himself a gentleman, and gentlemen exercised restraint.  He'd never believed in violence anyway.  He’d learned far better ways of dealing with people who annoyed or tried to hurt him.  He made a note to begin a private investigation into Lt. Snow’s alleged black market activities that very day.  If the man was guilty, Finch would make sure that he paid a heavy price for it.  In the meantime, he didn’t want to give Snow the satisfaction of knowing how deeply his sneering reminder of Nathan’s death had hurt. 

So he said witheringly, “If that’s the reason I’ve been assigned a bodyguard, it’s rather stupid.  Pray, tell me -- just how, precisely, is my bodyguard supposed to prevent the Nazis from dropping bombs?”

“He’s not,” Snow shot back.  “He’s just supposed to make sure you get out of their way in time.  Apparently, Col. Menzies and Col. Bruce feel you’re _indispensable_ to the war effort, Mr. Finch,” he sneered, making it clear that he didn’t share their opinion.  “So like it or not, the Sergeant here's going to be your new best friend.” 

Just then the dark haired man with him, who’d been quietly watching them argue, shot Snow a cold look and stepped forward, between him and Finch.  Turning his back on Snow, he introduced himself.  “Good morning, Mr. Finch,” he said politely.  “I'm Sgt. John Mars, sir.”

Finch looked at the tall, handsome soldier in surprise.  “Good morning.  You're American?”   

“By birth, yes,” the tall young man smiled.  “But I live here, and I was regular British Army until recently.  Now I’m with the SAS.”

“I see.”  Finch's facile mind raced, drawing quick conclusions.  Now he knew why Sgt. Mars was in a suit and out of uniform.  The SAS was a new, paramilitary division, a joint operation with the SIS.  SAS soldiers didn’t wear uniforms unless they were in active training, since the Army and the SIS were still trying to keep their very existence a secret from the Germans.  SAS men were Special Forces, highly trained commandoes with special skills, who were far more deadly than the average British soldier.  Why would MI6 have chosen such a special soldier to guard him?

“I’ve been assigned to be your bodyguard, Mr. Finch,” Mars added.  “I’ll try not to get in your way any more than I have to.”

''Hmm,'' Finch murmured, still feeling raw about Nathan.  “We’ll see about that.”  He was still considering the implications of Sgt. Mars' assignment, too.  SAS soldiers received training beyond the norm in combat, coding, weaponry, surveillance, hand-to-hand combat, explosives and more; and how to use all of that in covert operations.  It was all highly classified, but Finch had been briefed on their training and purpose. Though he was far too busy to teach them personally, MI6 had asked him, as the head of the Coding and Ciphers Dept. at Bletchley, to design that part of their training himself; and he had.  The SAS men were paratrooper/spies who were going to be dropped into North Africa to conduct independent, incredibly dangerous missions behind enemy lines.  They were the smartest, deadliest soldiers the British Army had.  Commandoes who would gather intelligence, carry out assassinations, bombings, spying, subversion and disruption of enemy activities with little or no external support.  Finch found it interesting, to say the least, that MI6 had deemed it necessary not just to give him a bodyguard, but such an exceptionally lethal one, at that. 

The matter absolutely demanded further investigation.

But it would have to be done discreetly; which meant personally.  Finch sighed to himself.  He was more than busy enough already...  But he couldn't trust anyone else with this.  He'd save his questions about it for those higher up in British Intelligence, though. 

At the moment, he focused on Sgt. Mars.  He’d never met an American in the British Army before.  But Sgt. Mars’ accent was pure Yank, which meant that his childhood, at least, must've been spent in the U.S.

Indulging his curiosity, Finch took his first long, hard look at the man who would (perhaps) be guarding him.  He was worth a look; or two or three, Harold thought.  In fact, if he'd been less wary, he would've been tempted to stare openly at the young soldier.  Sgt. John Mars of the SAS was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and deep-set blue eyes, high, elegant cheekbones, a square jaw and sensual mouth.  He looked strong and capable, and he was also strikingly handsome.  Finch felt a secret little thrill. 

 _Oh my,_ he thought.  He’s dashing _and_ dangerous…

Still, no one knew better than Finch how deceptive appearances could be.  He was careful to show no reaction to the Sgt.’s good looks.  He intended to reserve judgment about the soldier until he had a chance to check up on him.

Finch’s brilliant mind raced through several possible reasons for Mars’ new assignment, some darker than others.  It was possible that Lt. Snow, odious as he was, was telling the truth, and Finch’s life had been threatened by German agents.  It was also possible that Snow was lying and there was another, far more insidious reason for Mars being assigned to watch him.  Or perhaps Snow himself didn’t know the truth behind Mars’ assignment.  The supposed threat to Finch's life might be merely the cover story which he’d been given for it. 

 _God knows, if I were conducting a covert investigation of some sort, I’d never trust Snow with any knowledge of it_ , Finch reflected wryly. 

The real question was not what Snow knew, but what Sgt. Mars did.  If Finch had slipped up somehow, and someone high up in British Intelligence or the OSS suspected that the top British scientist in charge of decoding the secret messages encrypted by the German military’s Enigma machine was homosexual, the real purpose of Mars’ assignment might not be to guard Finch at all, but to spy on him.  Someone in MI6 might be trying to learn the truth about Finch's preferences, in order to discredit him and have him removed from the Ultra program.  Perhaps that was why a highly intelligent soldier like Sgt. Mars, who'd also been trained for covert operations, had been assigned to “guard” him.  Perhaps Mars was really a spy, who'd also been chosen for his task because his stunning good looks were meant as a lure, to draw Finch out or entice him into some indiscretion.

Harold studied Sgt. Mars’ handsome face thoughtfully.  In truth, he wasn’t unduly alarmed by the prospect of a covert investigation.  Concerned, but not frightened.  Such an investigation (even with such a striking lure) would be an unwelcome complication, certainly, given how busy he was.  But it was nothing he couldn’t handle.  People had entertained suspicions about him before.  Unmarried men who didn't date much raised the occasional eyebrow.  But Harold was small and plain, obsessed with his work, and had cultivated a reputation as a shy loner as well.  So he'd always managed to throw anyone looking too closely at him off the scent.  At least, he had up until now...

While Finch stood pondering the motives behind his new bodyguard’s presence, Lt. Snow took their introduction as his chance to escape.  “If you’ve got any more complaints about your bodyguard, Finch, take ‘em up with the brass,” he called from behind Sgt. Mars.   

 _You can be sure that I will_ , Finch thought, watching him with narrowed eyes.  

“I’m done here.”  Snow turned and headed down the stairs again with a sardonic parting salute.

Finch dismissed him from his mind for the moment, and began strategizing.  First, he'd need to verify the source of the orders for his new bodyguard, (if such Mars really was) by checking with the Chiefs of the SIS and the OSS’ London branch.  If the orders were genuine, he’d simply say he'd called to thank them for their concern in issuing him a guard.  He knew better than to question the Chiefs about their _motive_ for that order.  He could go elsewhere for that information. 

Fortunately for him, Col. Bruce’s aide, lt. Carl Perlson, owed him a favor.  Perlson would do.  He meant to drop a hint in Perlson's ear about Snow, as well.

His third call would be to Col. Menzies’ top aide, Harper.  Harper also owed him a favor.  A rather large one, which Finch intended to call in immediately.  Harper could also verify it, if MI6 really had received credible reports that German agents were being sent to assassinate him.  Equally importantly, neither Harper nor Perlson would report their conversation back to their bosses.  Finch had already tested them numerous times on that score, and found them to be satisfyingly close-mouthed.  But if Harper was vague about details or tried to be evasive about the nature of the threats, then Finch would know that Sgt. Mars hadn’t really been assigned to guard him, but to spy on him.  And he could then take steps to protect himself, without revealing his suspicions to the heads of British and American Intelligence. 

Finch’s last move would be to gather all the information he could on Sgt. Mars himself.  Finch made a mental note to request a copy of Sgt. Mars’ British Army and SAS personnel files from Harper, too.  He’d do that whether Mars had really been assigned to protect him or not.  Finch guarded his privacy zealously, and since Sgt. Mars might have to be close to him for a time, he’d need to know as much as he could about the man.  He needed to ascertain, to his own satisfaction, if Sgt. Mars could be trusted; and he wanted to know as quickly as possible.    

Before Snow had even reached the bottom of the front steps of the huge building Finch’s Coding and Ciphers department now used at Bletchley, Finch had already mentally mapped out his private course of action regarding his new bodyguard.

That done, Finch’s attention shifted back to the young man at his side.  He couldn’t help but dart a quick, covert glance at Sgt. Mars’ left hand.  When he saw a gold wedding ring there, he sighed inwardly at his own foolishness.  Of course, such a splendid man would already be taken -- and by a woman.  Ah, well.  He was disappointed, but not surprised. 

That fact made the Sgt. both more and less of a threat to him.  More, because he was likely to react with extreme negativity if Finch ever ‘slipped’ around him; and less, because knowing Mars was heterosexual from the start would help Finch keep his distance.  It would prevent him from even dreaming that anything could ever happen between them.

Not that there had been any hope of that anyway, he thought wryly.  Even if Harold had been extraordinarily lucky and Sgt. Mars wasn't married, wasn't a spy and had shared Finch's preference for men, it wouldn't have mattered.  A big, strapping, gorgeous soldier like him wouldn't be interested in a small, older, plain, bookish scientist who wore glasses –- especially not an injured, awkward one like Finch.  Why would such a handsome young man look twice at someone as physically unremarkable as he, Finch thought sadly, when Sgt. Mars could have anyone?

Still, Finch felt a surprisingly sharp pang of regret.  _Such a splendid looking young man_ ….

He'd barely managed to stifle his regret, when the young Sergeant suddenly held out his hand to Finch.  “I just wanted to say, I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Finch,” he said with a smile.  “I've heard a lot about you, and it's an honor to be assigned to your detail.”

The unexpectedly friendly gesture surprised Finch.  The soldiers at Bletchley were usually either reserved or terse around the scientists, adhering to military discipline.  Then again, Mars was a Yank.  Perhaps that accounted for his warmer greeting.

 _And perhaps he's a spy, trying to gain my trust_.

“Thank you, Sgt. Mars,” he answered warily.  “And thank you for catching me, earlier.”  Finch extended his hand to him reluctantly.  Politeness alone demanded that he shake the Sgt.’s hand, and he was also grateful for his help.  But he’d had too many soldiers try to crush his fingers under the guise of such a gesture in the past few years, to feel comfortable shaking hands with one any longer. 

Sgt. Mars surprised him, though.  His hand was large and strong, his fingers long and elegant.  But when his hand closed around Finch’s, his grip was firm, but not painful.  Confident, rather than cruel.

Sgt. Mars' handshake felt good.  Strong and warm, almost -- comforting, Harold thought, a bit stunned.  It reminded him of the warm, friendly way Nathan used to touch him.  Normally, Harold was instinctively wary of strangers, and disliked it if they touched him.  But to his surprise, he found he rather enjoyed that handshake.

He let go of Mars' hand abruptly, and tried to analyze his reaction.  Perhaps it was just relief; both for being saved from a bad fall, and for not being subjected to yet one more bone-headed, bone-crushing military handshake. 

Sgt. Mars must be more secure than the other soldiers I’ve met, Finch mused.  He doesn’t need to use a handshake to prove that he's stronger than I.  Of course, anyone who couldn’t see that at first glance would be stupid, he thought wryly.  Which I most certainly am not.  Besides, he'd already experienced Mars' strength, had felt how easily Mars' big hands had steadied him on the steps.

“It’s just Mr. Finch, please,” he heard himself say.  “There’s no need to call me ‘sir’.”

“Mr. Finch, then,” the Sergeant nodded, his smile widening.  “Sir,” he added with a smile.

Finch missed that.  He was busy noting privately that Sgt. Mars had an extremely charming smile.

He didn’t even realize that he must’ve been staring until Mars pointed up the stairs and prompted, “You were headed this way?” 

“Yes.  Come along, I’m a bit late this morning,” Finch said tersely.  He turned away, a little embarrassed that he’d gotten caught up in the handsome Sergeant’s smile.  He wasn’t usually nearly so obvious.  He could only hope that Sgt. Mars hadn’t noticed, or that he hadn’t guessed at the source of his momentary distraction.  

As Finch turned to continue up the stairs toward his office, Mars moved confidently along beside him, his blue eyes scanning sharply about, taking in everything around them with obvious interest.  Finch wasn’t sure if that was a result of his training, or if it was simply Mars’ own native curiosity.  Regardless, the man’s alertness impressed him.

“Since you weren’t expecting my assignment, Mr. Finch, I’d like to give you some information about how your bodyguarding detail is going to work,” Sgt. Mars explained as they climbed. 

Again, Mars was being polite, even friendly, Finch thought, pleased but still wary.  ''Yes, please do.''

“As of today, two of us from SAS, myself and Sgt. Pallard, have been assigned to guard you.  We’ll be with you all day and all night as well, until we’re notified otherwise.”

Finch grimaced.  He hadn’t been expecting two guards, and round-the-clock surveillance.  Bloody hell.

“Pallard’s my relief, and he’ll be coming on duty at 2300 – eleven p.m.  I’ll radio him your location, and he’ll join you wherever you happen to be at that time, at work or at home, and stay with you until I’m back on duty.  I start at 0700.  I’ll pick you up at your home and drive you to work –”

Finch sighed to himself, knowing how difficult being under constant surveillance would be for him.  Still, he automatically checked over the details Mars had given him, and noticed an anomaly.  “Your hours are uneven,” he observed instantly, curious as always.  “Yours will be much longer than Pallard’s.  Why is that?”

Mars blinked, as if surprised that he’d noticed such a minor detail; or maybe surprised that he cared about it.  “I volunteered for that, sir.  I wanted the bulk of the responsibility for protecting you to be mine,” he said simply.

And why is that? Finch wondered as he took the stairs as quickly as his awkward, limping gait would allow.  It was cold, and despite his heavy wool coat, his injuries always made him stiffer then.  He’d woke up late, and hadn’t had time to soak in a hot bath as he usually did before leaving for work on winter mornings.  But physical discomfort was a constant now, and it didn’t keep his mind from working at its usual top speed.  He wondered if Sgt. Mars was telling him the truth about why he’d chosen to structure his details' hours so unevenly. 

Finch had had ample opportunity to observe military men at Bletchley, and it seemed unusual for a soldier to volunteer for longer stretches of duty than he had to.  Why had Mars done so?  Was he ambitious?  Did he perhaps see this assignment as a step up the military ladder?  A way to gain promotion?  Did he need extra money, since he had a wife -- and possibly children -- to support?  Or had he been ordered to use his longer shift to get close to Finch, to gain Finch’s trust, the better to spy on him?

Unwilling to reveal his suspicions, and wanting more information on Sgt. Mars, Finch changed the subject.  “If you don’t mind my asking, if you were born in America, how did you wind up in the British Army?”

Mars just grinned at him.  “Ahh, but if I told you that, Mr. Finch, then I’d have to kill you,” he teased.

His new bodyguard evidently had a rather impudent sense of humor.  It reminded him instantly of Nathan.  Still, it wouldn't do to show his amusement.  Finch gave Mars a level look instead, until the young soldier relented. 

“Sorry.  The truth is, I was born in the U.S., in Washington state.  But my family moved here when I was fifteen, and I love it here.  I married an English girl, and England’s my home now.  So I signed up when the war broke out.”

“I see.”

When they neared the top of the stairs, Finch shot a sideways glance at Mars.  The soldier didn’t know it, but while he’d been studying his new surroundings, Finch had been observing _him_.  Putting him through a little test. 

He knew the Sergeant must’ve noticed his awkward gait, since it was exaggerated when he had to climb stairs, and it had been doubly apparent when Snow had grabbed him and pulled him off balance so easily.  Several of Finch’s colleagues had reacted unfavorably, even stupidly to his injuries in the past.  Some had even gone so far as to grab his arm when they were heading into work, to “help” him up the steep stone stairs into “C and C”, as Harold's department was often called.  Harold hated that with a passion, hated being treated as a weakling.  So now he used the walk up the front steps to his office as a sort of private test of character.  Anyone who grabbed at him without good reason like that, he avoided ever after.  He didn't consider what Mars had done for him earlier as that sort of insult, though.  On the contrary -- the soldier had saved him from a dangerous, maybe even deadly fall, and Finch was grateful.  Still, he wanted to see if the incident (and his injuries) would color the younger man's perception of him; make him over-protective.

To Finch’s relief, despite his earlier mishap, Sgt. Mars didn’t act as if he were helpless.  He stayed at Harold’s side, close enough to help if it was needed, without crowding him.  He didn’t stare or ask stupid, prying questions about how Finch had been injured, and he let Harold make his own way up the stairs unaided. 

Good, Finch thought with satisfaction.  Mars had passed his first ‘test’, displaying both intelligence and good manners.  It remained to be seen what his contacts at MI6 and the OSS, and Mars’ military records would tell him about the man…  Finch intended to ask Perlson for a copy of Sgt. Pallard’s personnel file too, just to be thorough.  But since Pallard would mostly be around at night while Finch was sleeping, he doubted that he’d present a problem.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Sgt. Mars surprised him by saying quietly, “Sorry about Snow, Mr. Finch.  He’s a bit of an ass.  I heard what happened to Mr. Ingram.  I know he was your friend, and I’m sorry he died like that.  But I’m gonna make damn sure that doesn't happen to you.”

Sgt. Mars seemed very kind, very American in his openness; and quite fiercely determined, as well.  Harold appreciated his sentiments, though given the frequency of Luftwaffe bombing raids lately, he didn’t think that his promise of safety was really one that anyone could keep.  But he liked the fact that Sgt. Mars evidently intended to try, and that he'd expressed condolences about Nate’s death.  He also thought it was interesting that the soldier seemed to share his dim view of Lt. Snow. 

 _Or was he just pretending to, to gain my confidence_?

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Finch replied cautiously.  He hadn’t begun to make up his mind what he really thought of Sgt. Mars yet.  Finch was better with machines than people, so Mars’ sincerity would be in question until he could check his records.  But all his initial impressions of the soldier were favorable; and he owed him his gratitude for his quick rescue on the stairs.  That had been genuine, unasked for, and showed the same kindness his words had.  He seemed quick to act and protective in the best sort of way – without being patronizing.  Both qualities would, even Finch was forced to admit, be excellent traits in a bodyguard.  So if Mars’ assignment was genuine, and if he could determine that Mars was trustworthy, then he admitted to himself that it might not be entirely unpleasant to have the young soldier around.  He was strikingly handsome and so far he seemed decent, even kind; and if he was half the man he looked, Harold had the feeling he’d prove to be brave as well. 

Just for a moment, he let himself wonder how different things might’ve been, if Mars had been guarding Nathan when that thrice-damned German bomb had hit.  Would Sgt. Mars have heard the bomb coming in time, and somehow gotten Nathan to safety?  He'd never know, but just for a moment, Harold wished that it could’ve happened like that.  That Sgt. Mars could’ve been assigned to guard Nathan instead of him, and saved him.

Then he pushed his grief and loss aside.  He’d have time to think of Nathan later, to mourn him as he always did when he was alone.  In the meantime, if he had to have a bodyguard detail, at least Sgt. Mars seemed alert, intelligent and compassionate; and since he was the soldier Finch would spend most of his time with, that was encouraging. 

Only time would tell if his first impressions of Mars’ sterling qualities were correct or not, of course.  Even if they were, things wouldn’t be easy.  Those very qualities were bound to make Finch’s life more difficult in other ways. 

Harold had good reasons for telling most everyone he knew that he was “a very private person”.  He guarded his privacy because he had dangerous secrets to keep.  The last thing he needed was to have an observant, intelligent, handsome but married soldier tagging along everywhere he went, watching him constantly.  For him, Sgt. Mars would be more than a nuisance -- he’d be both tempting and perilous.   

Harold was always careful.  It had become a way of life.  Still, he resolved to be especially careful henceforth, so the sharp-eyed young soldier would never see even a hint of his attraction to him. 

Sadly, Finch was used to keeping people at a distance.  He’d had to ever since he was a boy, when he’d first discovered his bent and learned how deeply others despised it.  So much that they would insult, injure or even kill him if they found out that he was attracted to men, rather than women.  Harold had learned to be alone long before Sgt. Mars had been assigned to him.  Though Finch was the head of the critical Ultra project for British Intelligence, homosexuality was still as illegal in England as it was everywhere else.  If anyone at Bletchley Park realized that Finch was homosexual, he’d be kicked off the project instantly, stripped of his security clearance and disgraced.  If it could be proven, he could even be sent to prison.  The fate of Oscar Wilde, the Irish writer whose books and plays Harold deeply admired, was tragic and a cautionary tale he could never forget.

Harold had always been careful to make certain that fate would never be his.  Caution forced him to be celibate far more than he would've preferred, but it was a simple equation:  sex was worth less than the value of his work, his reputation and his freedom.  Especially for a man like him, forced into furtive, strictly casual liaisons by punitive laws.  Robbed of spontaneity and any hope of real intimacy, sex had never been very fulfilling for him anyway.  Still, none of his liaisons had ever come to light, for the simple reason that he took elaborate precautions with them.  He never went to houses of prostitution, never saw the same man twice, always wore disguises when he sought partners for sex, and never gave any of them his real name. 

He’d have to take different precautions, while Sergeants Mars and Pallard were assigned to him.  Even if Mars truly was meant to be his bodyguard rather than a spy, Harold would still have to appear to have a normal private life, while the Sgt. was watching.  He’d have to avoid any assignations with males and date women instead.  It wouldn't be a problem; he’d done so before.  He actually enjoyed the company of attractive, intelligent women.  He even appreciated their beauty, it just didn’t stir him.  But they did provide a perfect cover for men like him, and Finch had a few female friends who he asked out on dates when necessary.  He’d learned that it didn’t take much, to allay others’ suspicions.  They usually saw only what they wanted to see.

Still... Though Finch was capable of an icy self control which he’d spent years developing, he was only human.  And if Lt. Snow was telling the truth about who’d issued his orders, and Finch was to have a tall, dark and handsome but completely off-limits young soldier at his elbow day and night for months, or perhaps even years if the war dragged on, he foresaw some sleepless nights in his future.

 _Lt. Snow_ …

As he and Sgt. Mars headed through the front door of the Codes and Cyphers department building designated 'Hut 8' and down the hall to his office, Harold’s eyes narrowed slightly at the memory of what that odious man had said about Nate.  Personal insults he could usually shrug off, but insults to Nathan’s memory – never.  If his investigation into the rumours about Snow’s black market activities didn’t pan out, he’d have to find some other way to make Lt. Snow’s life very difficult. 

The sooner the better.

 

*

Finch sat at his desk at home later that night, watching while his daytime bodyguard exchanged a brief salute with a shorter, stockier blond man, who, like Sgt. Mars, was also wearing a dark suit and tie.

The blond then turned and stepped toward Harold.  “Mr. Finch, sir.  I’m Sgt. Pallard.  I’ll be guarding you at night from now on.” 

Finch nodded at him.  “Yes, thank you.  Sgt. Mars apprised me of that.”  Finch noted that Pallard shared Sgt. Mars’ alert, watchful gaze, but he was shorter, his eyes were brown, and his face was pleasant rather than handsome, which was a relief.  Having one extremely handsome young bodyguard is more than enough temptation, thank you _very much_ , Harold thought wryly.   

Finch's staff had already been vetted by MI6, but Sgt. Mars had insisted on meeting each of them anyway, saying that he wanted to be sure he could recognize them all on sight.  Finch approved of his thoroughness.

“The maids are never here at night, unless I'm entertaining,'' Finch explained to Pallard.  ''But my housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Haymes and my butler, Mr. Stiles are.  They're the only staff who also live here.  They're in the kitchen at present, if you’d like to meet them.”

Pallard nodded, his dark brown eyes somber.  “Yes sir.”

Sgt. Mars nodded from behind him.  “I’ll be off then, Mr. Finch.  Have a good evening.”

“Yes.  You too, Sergeant. Thank you both.” 

Finch watched as both soldiers walked away.  He mentally reviewed what he’d already learned about them.  His earlier phone calls had borne fruit swiftly, and copies of both soldiers' Army and SAS personnel files had been delivered to him at Bletchley, where he'd read them with interest.

He'd smuggled them home with him too, so he could read them over more thoroughly.  Now that Sgt. Mars was gone and Pallard was momentarily out of sight, he had his chance.  He took the files out again.

His phone calls earlier that morning had settled the question of MI6's motives for assigning him bodyguards.  Apparently, they had received two bits of credible intelligence that there was a real threat on his life.  Spies in France had been told that a German assassination squad was being assembled to “take out that little Jew who’s running Ultra.”  Another Allied spy network in Spain had apparently intercepted a cable in Madrid on the same subject, indicating that men were being sent to, quote, “deal with the Jew running Ultra”.  Both British and American Intelligence had taken those threats seriously enough to issue him round-the-clock guards.

Finch wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed that his bodyguards were legitimate.  He was glad that he wasn’t being covertly investigated, but the threats against him meant that he would still be watched for the foreseeable future, which was a nuisance.  Perhaps even for several years, if the war dragged on that long and the threat failed to materialize right away.  It was a dismal prospect.

But since there was no way he could avoid it, he applied himself to poring over the Army records of his new bodyguards a second time.  Finch was always thorough himself.

Sgt. Robert Pallard was a Yorkshireman with a solid, even exemplary Army record.  He’d earned his rank in combat in North Africa, been wounded in action and sent home.  Once he’d recovered, he’d transferred to the SAS, which was considered even more hazardous duty.  His marks during his SAS training had been consistently high.

Sergeant Mars’ Army file was even more impressive.  Though he was only 28, like Pallard, Mars was already a combat veteran, twice decorated for valor in combat in North Africa.  Once for repeatedly risking his life by exposing himself to enemy fire so he could drag wounded comrades back to safety during the battle at Gazala, and the second for fearlessly jumping onto German tanks and lobbing grenades inside them during an attack by a Panzer unit at the first battle at El Alamein, a few months later.  He'd been wounded as a result – taken a bullet to his leg, and shrapnel through his left arm -- and sent home.  But like Pallard, as soon as he'd recovered, Mars had volunteered for even more dangerous duty in the SAS.

Finch blinked when he read that.  He was both amazed at the courage of the young men he’d just met, and appalled at the risks that Sgt. Mars in particular, seemed prone to taking. 

But once he delved into the parts of Mars’ file concerning his citations, the motive for those risks became clear.  Both times Sgt. Mars had risked his life against insane odds, he'd done it to save the other men in his unit.  According to his commanding officer, Lt. Owens, many of them owed their lives to him.

No wonder MI6 and the OSS chose him for this job, Harold thought.  Sergeant Mars was not only sharp-eyed and courageous, he was also highly motivated to save others.  The ideal bodyguard.

 _“_ It seems that all you want to do is protect people,” Finch mused softly.

He'd already seen that quality in Sgt. Mars himself, and had reason to be grateful for it.  He hadn’t forgotten the strong hands that'd reached out and caught him on the stairs that morning.  A strange warmth stole over him. 

 _He didn’t even know me, yet he may have already saved my life too_ , he thought.

Sgt. Mars was an extraordinary young man.  Judging by his near perfect test scores and the reports of his C.O.’s, Mars was more than brave, loyal and self-sacrificing.  He was also highly intelligent, adaptible and quick-thinking, an expert marksman and tactician who remained cool under fire and in the fiercest of battles.  In short, he’d proved himself more than proficient at every task the British Army had thrown at him, even the ultimate test of desert combat.  Finch noted with interest that his young guard had also shown strong aptitudes in math, languages, and coding; all of which had made him ideal for the SAS.

Apparently Sgt. Pallard had just completed his SAS training, but Sgt. Mars had been about four weeks short of finishing his when their SAS instructors had received a joint request from the OSS and SIS for their finest soldiers, for Finch's bodyguard detail.

Finch stared off into space, considering that.  Pallard and Mars were the finest soldiers in their units, and as such, valuable to the war effort.  MI6 must fear that the Germans were sending very highly trained soldiers to kill him, or they wouldn't have assigned him such a formidable pair of guards.    Finch was no coward; yet the thought gave him a chill.

Nate would've said, _Think of it as a compliment_.  His old friend's voice sounded in Harold's mind, wry and fond.  _If the Germans want to kill you that badly, Harold, you must be doing something right_.

Oh _Nathan_ …

Finch bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly against sudden tears.  Memories flooded his tired mind of the handsome, vital friend he'd lost.  He and Nate had had such fun at Cambridge.  In his mind's eye he could still see Nate, rushing to class late most mornings after some revelry the night before, smiling and hurrying along as the wind caught and lifted his shining blonde hair.  Nate had forever been pushing long, tawny strands off his forehead in an impatient gesture now forever enshrined in Harold's memory.  He recalled the limitless sense of possibilities youth had given them both.  The pure joy he'd felt, experimenting and inventing things in the university's labs. The heady rush of stretching his mind, letting it soar, absorbing knowledge like it was the air he needed to breathe...  And always, Nathan Ingram had been by his side.  Beautiful, laughing,  generous, golden-haired Nathan, who'd pursued knowledge and women with equal fervor.

Nate, whose golden hair and mischievous smile he would never see again, because  he'd been killed in a  Luftwaffe bombing raid.  For Harold, it was as if the sun had been forever dimmed by his passing.

Though Nate had been a brilliant, gifted engineer, Harold's interests were both broader and deeper.  But if he'd been the smarter of the two, Nathan had been his superior in so many other ways.  Taller, far more handsome, more charming and outgoing, funnier and vastly more popular…  Nathan had been gifted with people, had understood and charmed them effortlessly, when they'd always been mysteries to Harold. 

Yet somehow, after they'd bumped into each other in the library one day and begun a spirited discussion of the most perfectly engineered bridges in England, Nathan kept seeking Harold out and before Finch knew it, a lasting friendship had been formed.  To this day, Finch still marveled at it.  He'd been so lucky... 

Despite the threat and then the dark reality of war, in some ways, their years together at Cambridge and then at Bletchley Park afterwards, had been the happiest and most fulfilling of Harold’s life.  It had been a privilege even knowing a man as fine as Nathan Ingram.  Having him as his best friend was a gift that the previously solitary Harold had never expected; and it'd been great fun as well.  Nathan had had the rare gift of taking Harold out of his own head, of distracting him from the math and physics problems he loved and luring him to parties, films and plays.  Nathan had loved Harold in his own way, and he’d known how to amuse him, which almost no one else could do.   He'd known that Harold was Jewish, but hadn't cared a fig about it.  He'd even guessed that Finch wasn't his real name; but after a few teasing questions, he'd given up and simply accepted Harold's secretiveness about his past.

Harold knew he’d been extremely lucky, having Nate Ingram as his best friend.  But that very happiness only served to underscore his current loneliness.  He tried not to think, for the thousandth time, how empty his life now was without Nathan.  But sometimes, late at night like this, it seemed as if all his work, absorbing and important though it was, was just a distraction.  A curtain he'd drawn across his heart, to keep the pain of Nate’s death from breaking him.  He did his work in Nathan’s memory now, to save countless others from his fate; but sometimes that seemed scant, cold comfort.

You’re being selfish, he reproved himself.  You’re not the only one who's lost someone in this war.  At least you’re still alive, to carry on the fight.

Harold blinked rapidly, not letting his tears fall.  But that was all the stoicism he could manage.  Grief twisted inside him anyway, hot, aching, and seemingly endless.  Harold closed his eyes, but even in the darkness there, he could still see Nathan shining, bright and beautiful.

 _Nathan_ , he whispered mentally, where no one else could hear.  _I miss you so.   And I am so alone..._

*

A week later, Finch noticed something odd at his office.  It was composed of two rooms, an outer one with a desk where he did most of his work and met visitors and colleagues, and a smaller back room with a little desk, a more private space where he kept his more important papers locked at all times.  The two rooms were separated by a door that Finch always locked, whenever he had visitors who didn't work for MI6.  Normally though, he left the door open so he could work on a chalkboard he kept in the back room.  He liked to dart in at odd moments and scribble equations there, work on physics problems or math concerning his inventions, or sometimes new variations on codes and ciphers in his (admittedly scant) spare time.  He often worked backwards with them, writing out messages he'd encrypted in new ways and then looking them over, trying to decide how hard it would be for someone who was trained at it to decipher them, and if it would be impossible for someone who wasn’t.

But suddenly, it seemed like someone had invaded what Finch had always thought of as his private sanctuary at Bletchley.

One Friday evening at about 10:45 p.m., he walked back into his office after spending about ten minutes working with an engineer and physicist friend across the hall.  Alan Smythe had asked him to look over an intriguing set of equations regarding thrust and drag, in relation to the wings of a new fighter plane that he and two others were designing for the RAF.  That done, Finch wanted to take a last look at the current code on his blackboard, before going home. 

He strolled past Sgt. Mars into the back of his office and froze in surprise.  “What -- who did this?” he muttered, stunned.

Someone had written on his chalkboard.  Someone had breached his private sanctuary, and correctly -- and boldly -- worked out the bit of code he’d been working on, and written most of the decoded message beneath it.

Most, but not all of it, Finch noted automatically.  As if the mysterious decoder had been interrupted before he or she could finish…

When had it happened?  Some time after three, he realized.  He'd taken a look at some of his equations on the board then, and the stranger's writing hadn't been there.

Though he was alarmed, Harold paused to consider the situation.  Ordinarily, no one came into the back of his office except for the soldiers who made the rounds at night, making sure that everything was locked up tight; and he'd already come and gone.  It was unlikely that he'd be capable of this anyway.  No one else came into the back, private part of his office, and even if they had, no one here would’ve written on his blackboard like this.  Though there were several other scientists at Bletchley who could’ve easily decoded Finch's scribblings, they were all extremely busy, and absorbed in their own projects.  Stealing in here to decipher something of his would've been a waste of their time, rather like a childish prank; and they were all deeply serious men.  Besides, Finch would’ve recognized their handwriting.  But the neat, yet bold chalk strokes he was staring at now were unfamiliar; the writing of a stranger.

The most obvious question was, how had this mysterious stranger gotten past his highly trained bodyguard, who was still at his office door, without being seen?  And what else had they done?

Finch quickly checked the lock on the little desk by his blackboard.  It seemed untouched, and unlocked easily when he opened it.  None of the top secret documents he'd stored in the desk were missing, either.  Thank God.  Nor had anything else on the desk, or in the room itself, been touched – except for the chalk and his blackboard.  And Harold had only been out of his office for a few moments, to speak to Smythe across the hall.  Fifteen minutes at most, he thought.  He hadn't even been out of sight of his office door.

“Sgt. Mars!” he called out sharply, worried yet also intrigued.  Finch had devoted his life to solving mysteries, after all.  Finding one in his own, supposedly secure office piqued his curiosity.

Mars came in promptly from his usual position at Finch’s outer door.  “Yes, Mr. Finch?”

“Has anyone else but us been in here today?''

Mars shook his head.  ''No, just the security officer.''

The writing on Finch's chalkboard said otherwise.  ''I thought you were supposed to be guarding my office,” he began.

“No, I’m supposed to be guarding you; but you just happen to be in your office, so I'm guarding that too,” Mars smiled.

“Don’t split hairs with me!” Finch snapped.  “This is serious!  Someone has been in my back office within the past few hours.  That’s a breach of security.”

Mars' smile vanished instantly.  “Sorry, Mr. Finch.”  He moved past Harold and checked around thoroughly.  “Nothing looks out of place.  Has anything in here been taken or moved?” he asked.

“Not that I can see.  I keep that desk locked, and the lock hasn’t been tampered with, and nothing in that desk or the rest of the room is missing.  I checked before I called you,” Finch replied.

“Then what makes you think –”

Finch pursed his lips.  “The blackboard!” he pointed to it in exasperation.  “Someone wrote on it while I was out just now.  Decoded something I was working on there.”

To his surprise, Sgt. Mars stiffened at that.  He blinked and said awkwardly, “Oh.  Uh.  Yes.  Well, sir –”

Harold had never seen his cool, confident bodyguard even slightly discomfited before.  It made the truth obvious.

“It was _you!_ ” he breathed in surprise.

“Yeah.  I’m afraid it was me, Mr. Finch,” Mars said sheepishly, at the same instant.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.  Finch felt a bit embarrassed himself, at having missed the obvious.  Then again, when he'd come back from talking to Smythe, Sgt. Mars had been standing at his usual post by his outer office door.  So he'd had no reason to suspect that Mars had gone into the back room while he'd stepped out.  Now that he knew, he couldn't help wondering how the Sgt. had managed to get from the blackboard in his back office to his outer office door, so quickly that he'd never even seen him move.

 _Covert ops training_ , Harold reminded himself wryly.  _He’s learned to move fast_. 

Sgt. Mars still looked uncomfortable.  He drew himself up even straighter than usual.  “I apologize, Mr. Finch sir,” he said formally.  “Sorry I worried you.  I didn’t touch anything else, and I didn't mean to pry.  I was just -- well, looking at what you'd written, and I guess I got carried away.  I meant to erase what I wrote before you came back, but you came back sooner than I was expecting…”

“I see.”  Finch blew out a breath and shook his head, immensely relieved that there hadn’t been a security breach after all.  ''Well.  No harm done, I suppose,'' he said.  But a trace of suspicion lingered in his mind.  Why had the Sergeant felt he needed to hide what he'd done?

“I wasn't neglecting you, Mr. Finch,” Sgt. Mars said earnestly, though Finch hadn't suggested as much.  ''I could see you from your blackboard.  I was still watching you and Mr. Smythe, while I was decoding.” 

Finch didn't doubt it.  Sgt. Mars was nothing if not dedicated.  But now he understood why the Sgt. had raced back to his post, to hide what he'd been doing.  He’d worried that Finch would perceive him as having neglected his duty as his bodyguard, while he’d been decoding.  ''Don't worry about it,'' Finch said dryly.  He hadn't exactly been in any danger in Alan Smythe's office, after all.

“I just --”

“You were bored, and couldn't resist a riddle,'' Finch supplied, understanding completely.  

“Yeah.  But it was still unprofessional,'' the Sgt. muttered unhappily.  “It won't happen again.  I’ll just go erase what I wrote right now,” he muttered, turning towards the blackboard in obvious embarrassment, as if he _had_ somehow been caught in derelection of duty.

“No, no!”  Harold said quickly.  “No need.  Still.  Why didn't you tell me it was you, when I asked?''

Sgt. Mars shrugged.  ''You didn't.  You asked if anyone else but us had been in your office today.  I told you the truth; no one else but the security guard had been there.” 

“I see.”  Finch realized, those had been his exact words.  Sgt. Mars had just chosen to take them literally. 

“When you asked me that, I didn't know that you'd already seen what I'd written, either.  I meant to pop back in and erase it before I drove you home.”

''All right, Sergeant,'' Finch repeated, satisfied.  ''I understand.  Let's just forget it, shall we?” 

Mars looked relieved.  “Thanks, Mr. Finch.  I didn't mean any harm --”

Finch waved a hand.  ''I'm sure of that.  If I thought you had, I’d report you,” he added, and they both knew he wasn’t joking.  “I believe I've done enough for one day, though, Sergeant.  It’s time to go.”

Sgt. Mars brightened at that, his eyes lighting up.  “All right.  I'll drive you home, then.”

That look reminded Finch of just how bored Mars must’ve been, to do what he'd just done.  He felt a faint sense of chagrin.  He found his work so engrossing, it hadn’t occurred to him how hard it must be for an energetic, athletic young man like Sgt. Mars to stand quietly by, watching him do it all day.  “Fine.” 

But as he turned to lock his outer office door, Finch shook his head wryly at his bodyguard's eagerness to chauffeur him.  He knew it wasn’t entirely due to the tedium of being his bodyguard.  Sgt. Mars loved automobiles, and he'd quickly developed a passion for Finch's Rolls Royce that made Harold secretly feel absurdly jealous of his own car. The first time he'd laid eyes on the black Wraith, Mars' eyes had gone wide and he'd grinned, “Oh, now that -- _that_ is a thing of true beauty, Mr. Finch!”  He'd run his hands gently over the Rolls' sleek, curved hood as admiringly as a lover.  In fact, Harold was fairly sure that driving him to and from work in that car was currently the high point of Sgt. Mars' workday.

Which shouldn't be the case, Finch realized abruptly.

The thought struck with enough force that he considered it again later on, in the car.  He'd developed a habit of reading in the Rolls on his way home from work, by the light of a tiny torch he'd attached a metal shade to, so it could be used even during blackouts.  He had so much work to do in his Codes & Ciphers department alone, he could never catch up with it.  Then there were his own private inventions and research.  There was never enough time for it all, so he liked to work in the car while going to and from Bletchley.

But that night, though he'd turned on his torch as usual after he got in the car, and opened a file containing notes on one of his new inventions, Harold couldn't stop thinking of what had just happened in his office.  Judging by his speed at decoding Finch's work, John Mars was even brighter than his military files had suggested.  Yet all he got to do all day, and for most of the evening too, was stand around and watch Finch work.  Still the Sgt. was so conscientious that the only time in several weeks that he'd briefly done something else on duty, he'd done it where he could observe Finch at the same time -- then sworn it would never happen again.

That would be a shame and a waste of a fine mind, Finch reflected.  It hadn't really occurred to him before that Sgt. Mars might be bored.  The soldier certainly hadn’t let it show; and for the past few weeks, Harold had been preoccupied by trying to get used to the loss of his privacy, to the feeling of constantly being watched by a pair of blue eyes that missed nothing.  It wasn't easy being the focus of such a handsome young man's gaze all day, yet being forced to ignore it.  Harold had quickly learned to sit at a slight angle to Sgt. Mars while he worked, so he wasn't constantly reminding himself not to look up at him when he felt the weight of the soldier's gaze on him.  He was still trying to adapt to Sgt. Pallard's presence in his home at night as well.  Fortunately for him, both soldiers were polite and well-behaved. 

Still, for a man as private as Finch, being watched at all times was a kind of hell.  He'd been so busy adjusting to his own discomfort at being under constant scrutiny, he hadn't spared a thought for Sgt. Mars' side of the situation.

He'd actually been working so hard at ignoring Mars, he hadn't even spoken to him much.  Not that the Sgt. had complained.  Far from it.  He was always cheerful, had a ready smile, and was helpful without being intrusive.  In fact, to Harold's surprise, Sgt. Mars had begun quietly, subtly looking after him in other ways, too.  Making sure he went home at a semi-decent hour, having the clerks in C and C brew his favorite brand of tea, chatting cheerfully to him even though Finch hadn’t talked to him much…  Mars had been more than just the perfect bodyguard, he'd been friendly and kind as well.

He's also risking his life for me, and he's a highly intelligent man who was plucked from active, challenging training to do nothing but watch me and whoever comes near me all day, Finch reflected.  He must be bored witless; and I've made things worse by largely pretending that he doesn't exist. 

Finch felt a pang of guilt.  Small wonder that the Sgt. was tempted to do a bit of decoding.  I would’ve been too, in his place.  He must be starved for intellectual stimulation.  I should've realized...

  Human interaction has never been my forte, Harold thought ruefully.  Nathan would’ve made friends with Sgt. Mars instantly, he knew.  Hell, Nate would've sussed out every detail of his personal life by now, as well.  His wife's first name, whether they're happily married...  If they have children, he'd've learned all their names and ages, too. 

While he, by contrast, had been distant and standoffish to a young man who'd been nothing but kind to him in return.  Harold was embarrassed.  Mars had been watching over him for two weeks, yet he'd never once bothered to ask the young man a single thing about himself.  Yet Sgt. Mars was a war hero, a brave, decorated soldier who might get shot or even die, protecting him.  And even if he survived this assignment, Mars would then return to the SAS and be sent into even worse danger overseas.

 _He deserves far better treatment than what I've given him,_ Finch thought guiltily.  _There must be something I can do to make up for my selfishness and neglect_...

Harold had one of his swift, brilliant flashes of inspiration.  He realized he could do something far more beneficial for his bodyguard than simply chatting the Sergeant up.  _I can teach him skills that will help him survive when he goes back to Africa as a covert operative_. 

Sgt. Mars' assignment as his bodyguard was only temporary, after all.  As soon as the threat to Finch was over, he'd finish his SAS training and be sent back to war.  And Finch knew all too well that covert agents usually didn't last more than a few months.  Part of the reason for that was the lack of time available to train them properly before their deployment.  He could at least do something about that.

“Would you like me to teach you something more about codes and ciphers, Sgt. Mars?” he heard himself ask, almost before he knew it.

Mars shot him a startled glance while he drove.  “What's that, sir?”

“It's a simple question, Sergeant.  Is that something you would enjoy?”

Mars' eyes lit up, but then dimmed again.  He bit his lip and said tersely, “I’d like that very much, but I can't, sir.”

“Why ever not?”

Mars' mouth tightened.  “Your safety is my responsibility, Mr. Finch; and codes and ciphers take concentration --”

“And you can't afford to divert your attention like that while you're on duty,” Finch interrupted.  “Yes, of course.  But --”

“Thanks for the offer, though,” Sgt. Mars began.  “It's good of you, and I appreciate it --”

“Wait, don't be so hasty,” Finch reproved.  “I have an idea which I believe will solve the problem...”

 

*

 

The next morning, before he started his own work, Finch had a clerk bring a new blackboard into his office and set it behind his desk.  After his clerk left, he angled the board so that anyone looking at him from his doorway couldn't help but see it.  Sgt. Mars would certainly see it, from his station at his office door. Then he wrote out an encoded message on the board which was slightly more challenging than the ones he'd put into the SAS's training courses.  Dusting the chalk from his hands, he moved back to his desk.  As he sat down, he said quietly, “If you were, perhaps, to take notice of what I just wrote there today, we could perhaps discuss it further later tonight when you're off duty, Sergeant.”

“Perhaps we could, Mr. Finch,” was all Sgt. Mars said in reply.  But his delighted grin was a thing of beauty.

 

*

Sgt. Mars was a bit stunned by the sudden change in Finch's attitude towards him, and by his good luck in becoming the student of such a brilliant man.  Though Finch was always polite, for the first few weeks that John had been assigned to protect him, he'd been guarded and hadn't said much.  In fact, rather to his disappointment, Finch had seemed, for the most part, to prefer pretending that he wasn't even there.  Until John snuck into the back of Finch's office for a bit of unauthorized decoding, that is.  He hadn't meant for Finch to see it, but he'd come back to his office faster than John expected, and seen what he'd written on his blackboard before he could erase it.  That turned a few minutes' diversion into a mistake that could've been considered dereliction of duty.  He'd feared that his cheek in decoding Finch's coded message that day might get him demoted or even transferred, if Finch reported him. 

Instead, oddly enough, Finch seemed to _approve_ of what he'd done.  He'd actually offered to teach him more codes and ciphers afterward, and quickly figured out a way to do it out in plain sight, without anyone else being the wiser, and without distracting John from his duty either.  His solution was simple but truly ingenious:  he’d had a second blackboard set up behind his desk, where he would post encoded messages.  Since Finch was the head of C and C and a physicist as well, he constantly worked with codes, equations and math formulas on a blackboard in his inner office.  So no one who caught sight of his second blackboard would have any idea that the chalk scribblings there weren’t just more of the scientist’s own work. 

But John knew better.  By watching Finch and his surroundings as he was supposed to all day, John couldn't help but see (and eventually memorize) his coded or ciphered lessons over Finch's shoulder. 

And when Mars sat down to decode them later, when he was off-duty at Finch’s estate, Finch's messages always turned out to be interesting passages from books or plays.  Shakespeare sometimes, or Dickens, Proust or Kafka.  Or once, an intriguing bit of an essay on population growth by Malthus.  Sgt. Mars started to look forward to his lessons' content, as much as he enjoyed wracking his brain by cracking the codes to reveal them.

Finch's lessons in decryption brought the two men closer together.  A week and a half later, Sgt. Mars had learned a new code and three new ciphers, and he and Finch were talking easily, and even playing the occasional game of chess late at night, while they waited for Sgt. Pallard to arrive and begin his shift on guard duty. 

Finch eyed his bodyguard thoughtfully over his chessboard, as Mars considered his next move.  “Did you know, Sergeant, that the word “code” comes from the Latin word “codex”, which means book?”

“Hmm.  Is that an attempt to distract me, Mr. Finch?” Mars teased.

Finch widened his eyes innocently.  “Would I stoop to such underhanded tactics, Sergeant?”

The soldier shot him an amused look that said, _In a heartbeat,_ though he didn't say it out loud.  Instead, he threw back a question of his own.  “Do you know, Mr. Finch, where the phrase 'a square meal' comes from?”

Finch shook his head. 

The Sgt. grinned.  “That’s because you don’t eat enough to be familiar with the concept!  Sir,” he added wryly.

Finch shook his head, smiling a bit in spite of himself.  He'd walked right into that one.  “Really, Sergeant.  I assure you, I’ve been looking after myself for years now.  I do not require a mother,” he said wryly.

Mars just laughed.  “Says you, Mr. Finch!” and took one of Finch’s pawns.  “What did you have for dinner then, if I may ask, sir?  Or supper either?  Hmm?”

“Well, I--”  Finch scowled, suddenly realizing he hadn't eaten anything all day.

Mars grinned.  “I rest my case.  Never fear though, help is on the way.  We can't let you waste away to nothing, after all...” 

“‘We’?”  Finch echoed, raising an eyebrow at his odd choice of words.

Just then, he saw the reason for it.  As if on cue, Mrs. Haymes bustled in with a large tray of tea, scones and several kinds of sandwiches, and pulled an end table over so that she could set the food next to their chessboard.  Since he hadn't asked for any supper, Finch knew Sgt. Mars must've arranged this.

“Really, that's not--” _necessary_ , he started to protest.  But the delicious, mingled scents of the tea and hot scones reached him then, and his neglected stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he'd forgotten to eat all day.  Mars snickered audibly at the indecorous sound, or maybe at Harold’s stubborn attempt to deny his obvious hunger. 

Mrs. Haymes gave Finch a stern look.  “I hope you’ll like these scones, Mr. Finch.  I used up our sugar rations for this month, making them,” she said pointedly.

“Oh, all right,” Harold sighed.  Knowing when he was outnumbered, he reached for a scone and took a bite.  “Mmm, delicious as always,” he pronounced truthfully, as the sweet, tart flavors of raspberries, butter and sugar filled his mouth.  Mrs. Haymes was both a superb housekeeper and an excellent cook.  She nodded to him -- more in approval of the fact that he was eating, he suspected, than at his compliment to her cooking -- and gave Sgt. Mars a wink as she left. 

He grinned back at her, clearly pleased with their efforts to get him to eat.

Harold’s eyes narrowed as he took another bite of his scone.  He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or horrified by the fact that his own bodyguard and housekeeper were apparently conspiring against him.  The sergeant’s powers of persuasion weren’t limited to Mrs. Haymes, either.  He seemed to wield undue influence over the female staff at Bletchley Park as well, because secretaries and clerks there had begun mysteriously depositing tea with crumpets or sandwiches on his desk lately too, though he hadn't asked for them.  When he’d tried to ask them about it, they’d just smiled at him mysteriously and left without saying a word.  Still, he'd known who was behind it.  Every female in his life, both at work and at home, seemed eager to please Sgt. Mars, he thought, bemused.

Small wonder, really.  As if his splendid looks weren't enough, he was also cheerful, charming, and a war hero; what woman could resist?  And when it came to making sure that Finch ate regularly, Mars seemed both creative and determined.  Harold decided wryly that he probably shouldn’t complain too much, however, as Mars' efforts kept him from fainting in public from hunger. 

A memory returned of Nate dragging him into pubs near Cambridge for similar reasons, in happier times.  Just for an instant, he heard Nathan’s voice again, wry and teasing, on a day long ago.  _I swear, Harold, if I didn’t force you to eat on occasion, I think you’d waste away to a shadow!_

Now Nathan, who'd been so handsome and vital, was only a shadow in his memories...

Grief knifed through Harold, so sudden and sharp that he laid down his scone and drew in a shaky breath.  Alert as always to any changes in his mood, Sergeant Mars looked up and searched his face, his eyes narrowing.  Harold averted his eyes, not wanting his young bodyguard to see him lose his composure.  But the pain of losing Nate washed over him anew, an almost unbearable agony that turned the sweet taste of the raspberry pastry to ashes in his mouth.  His hunger had vanished.

“Mr. Finch.  Harold.  Is this...not what you wanted?” the Sergeant asked, his brow furrowing in confusion as he waved a hand at the food. 

Harold couldn't answer.  His throat thick with grief, he just shook his head helplessly as his eyes filled with tears.  _Dear God, no, this isn't what I wanted_ , he thought, anguished.  _I never imagined having to live on for years in a world without Nathan.  Given the choice, I’d’ve died with him._

“ _Sir!_ ” Mars' eyes widened in alarm, his voice dropping to a hoarse near whisper.  “Are you feeling unwell, or -- have I done something to upset you, Mr. Finch?”

He looked so worried that Harold shook his head again.  Undone by the young soldier's kindness and concern, which reminded him painfully of his old friend, he tried to say, _No.  I'm all right_.

But to his horror, when he tried to reassure his bodyguard, he found he was too choked up to utter a sound.  A tear rolled down his face instead.  Only then did he realize how truly tired he was.  Surely it must be that, he thought dimly.  I must be worn out from working too hard.  This unprecedented loss of control is so unlike me… 

Harold hardly ever cried, and never in front of others.  He’d certainly never meant to weep in front of a brave young soldier whom he deeply respected.

He jerked to his feet, horribly embarrassed.  “Sorry,” he finally managed to grate, trying to wipe away his tears and leave before he could disgrace himself completely.

But to his surprise, Sgt. Mars' big hand shot out, closing gently over his before he could escape.  “Please, Mr. Finch,” he said quietly.  “Don't leave yet, sir.  You -- you haven't even had your tea.” 

Mars’ big blue eyes fixed on his, pleading earnestly with him to stay.  Obviously, the Sergeant was grasping at straws to keep him there, Finch thought.  He just couldn't understand why.  Mars was a big, strong soldier, stalwart and utterly fearless.  A war hero, for god sakes.  How could he possibly understand such weakness?  Mars couldn’t know what Harold had been thinking, or what had caused his tears.  He must think Finch was losing his mind, or that he was a doddering old fool.  Surely he must --

But Mars’ quiet plea for Harold to stay, the way he kept calling him “sir” and his touch, so gentle, so careful – just firm enough to keep him there, but not hard enough to hurt -- that all seemed to imply otherwise.  Finch stared down in surprise at the large hand holding onto his so lightly.  Mars withdrew it quickly, as if he feared he'd overstepped his bounds with the gesture.  But he hadn't asked prying questions, or even mentioned Harold's breakdown.  He’d been careful not to, and Harold knew he'd been discreet in order to save his pride.  All he could think, yet again, was how very much Sgt. Mars' great kindness and compassion reminded him of Nathan.

Finally, Harold managed to regain his voice.  “I –”  Hearing a distinct quaver in it, he cleared his throat and tried again.  “I’m not sure that I want any tea, just now,” he said at last, a bit more steadily.

“All right,” Sgt. Mars said quietly.  “Then would you mind if I have a cup?”

“No, that's fine.  I'll pour,” Harold said, glad of a diversion.  “You know you don’t need to ask,” he added.  He reached for the teapot and cup automatically, grateful that his hands seemed to steady as he poured the Sgt.'s tea.  The little domesticity provided him a welcome refuge, a moment to recover from the piercing ache of his grief.  The pain in his chest somehow eased a bit as he offered John his tea.  Still, once Mars took it, he got up, feeling it would be better to go and compose himself in private.

“Thank you, sir.  Will you keep me company for a bit, while I drink it?”  Again, the request was spoken so gently that it was impossible to take offense at it.

Somehow, though he knew he was being maneuvered, Harold found he couldn’t leave then.  Whether he deserved it or not, the Sgt. was being so kind to him that it would’ve been churlish to run off, as he’d intended.  “Very well.  If you wish,” he agreed reluctantly, sinking back down into his chair. 

“Thank you sir,” Mars smiled, as if Harold had done him a favor by staying.

Harold sighed.  “Please.  I’ve told you to stop calling me ‘sir’,” he muttered, as the Sergeant sipped his tea.

“Yes _sir_ ,” the soldier grinned cheekily, as he often did.  Now that Finch had agreed not to go, Mars' blue eyes were sparkling.  “I do seem to recall you mentioning that.  Once or twice.”

Harold rolled his eyes with familiar exasperation at Mars’ teasing.  “Hardly,” he sniffed.  “I would estimate my requests must number in the double digits by now.  Isn't it odd then, how I keep hearing it anyway?” he asked dryly.  Then he leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes for a moment, sighing as weariness rolled over him in a dark wave.  Somewhere deep inside, he’d felt tired since Nathan’s death.  It was as if some vital spark had gone out of him, like part of his strength had been stolen on that terrible day.

 _It was_ , he thought bleakly.

To his relief, the younger man was quiet for a few minutes, just drinking his tea.  Then he said, “Here, Mr. Finch.  Have a bite of a sandwich, at least.”

Harold opened his eyes to find Mars holding out a sandwich to him.  His mouth quirked unhappily, and he almost refused.  Grief had stolen his appetite.  But he knew the Sgt. would insist, and Harold was tired and upset; he didn't have the energy to argue the matter with him.  After a minute, he reached for the sandwich reluctantly and took a bite, just to please his bodyguard. 

He noticed it was cucumber rather than meat, without much surprise.  Meat, butter, sugar, milk – so many things had been rationed since the war started.  He’d resorted to having Mrs. Haymes order meat, dairy products, eggs and sugar from the U.S. once a month.  But since she'd mentioned using up their ration cards for sugar earlier, he assumed their order hadn’t arrived yet.

Then he remembered his manners.  “Please have one yourself, Sergeant,” he invited.  “You must be hungry too.” 

“Thanks, Mr. Finch.  Don’t mind if I do.”

Finch forced himself to take a few more bites, for both the sake of the friend who lived only in his memory now, and for the young soldier sitting beside him, who was so like him.  For a few minutes, the two men ate and drank in quiet, companionable silence, by the welcome warmth of the fire.  When Sgt. Mars finished his sandwich, he caught Harold's gaze.  “It’s okay to miss him, you know,” he said quietly.  “Mr. Ingram, I mean.”

Finch froze in astonishment.  “How on earth did you kn–”

Mars looked away, down into the delicate china tea cup that looked fragile in his large hands.  “I lost my two best friends in my first battle in Africa,” he said in a low voice.  “James Corcoran and John Farrell.  We were all in the same company.  Signed up together, we did.  Convinced we could win the war single-handed.  But when it came time to prove it…I couldn’t even save them,” he said, his mouth twisted with sorrow.  “They were blown to bits by a mortar, just two feet away from me.  And now there's not a day goes by that I don't wonder, sir,” he finished hoarsely.  “Why them?  Why them, and not me?”

Finch’s heart twisted inside him.  Dear God.  _This_ was how John knew what he’d been thinking, and who his tears were for.  He had his own Nathan.  Two of them -- or maybe more than that.  Of course he did -- young as he was, he was a soldier who’d seen far more horror and death already than Harold probably ever would.  John was just so cheerful by nature, that Harold tended to forget where he’d been and what he’d done before they’d met; that hidden behind his bright eyes and charming smile, John Mars had scars and pain of his own.

“You can't think like that,” Harold said at last, though he'd asked the same question himself, every day since Nathan's death.

Mars stared away into the fire, a bleak look on his face that Finch had never seen before.  “I know,” he answered softly, in a way that told Finch he always would.

Harold wished desperately that he could simply hug the young soldier, who bore wounds just like his; or at least pat him on the shoulder.  He longed to return John's kindness, to ease his pain somehow, as John had just done for him.  But he knew that kind of response was impossible.  He was incredibly lucky that Sgt. Mars had been generous enough to open up to him as he had, though they hadn't really known each other very long.  He couldn't trespass on such kindness with an unseemly gesture, didn't want to risk offending the young man who'd just proved that he was more than just his guard, he was also a friend.

For a long moment, it was so quiet in the room that they could both hear the crackling of the fire.  Finch watched the Sgt., wondering desperately what he should say.  He needed to at least thank the younger man for his understanding, and for baring his soul the way he had, just to keep him from feeling foolish.  But he'd never been good with people, and fumbled for the proper words.  How could he thank Mars for sharing something so personal and wrenching, without sounding insensitive? 

Finally, he just said softly, “I understand, John.  And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry that you’ve lost friends too.”  It was the first time he’d ever used his bodyguard’s first name.

John didn’t seem to mind.  He just nodded and smiled a bit, though it was tinged with sadness.  “S’all right, Harold.  Just remember, though -- soldiers cry too sometimes,” he answered quietly, his voice still heavy.  “We bloody well do.”

Harold nodded.  That was something he would never forget again.

*

After that night, Finch tried to eat more often.  And he liked to think that Sgt. Mars rewarded that effort by calling him “sir” a bit less.

*

A few weeks later, the two men were once again settled in Finch’s study, playing chess while they waited for Sgt. Pallard to come on duty.  Finch won their first game, but Mars merely shrugged.  “I’ve just been taking it easy on you up till now, Mr. Finch,” he teased.  “But just you wait.”

Finch arched an eyebrow at him.  “Indeed, Sgt. Mars?  Have you merely been lulling me into a false sense of security all this time, then?”  Finch kept his tone dry, but oh, he loved teasing his handsome young bodyguard right back, indeed he did.

“Too right, sir!  Let’s play again.  I warn you though -- this time, it won’t be so easy.  This time, I’ll trounce you right and proper.”

Sgt. Mars was still smiling, but now he had the light of battle in his eyes; and Finch wasn’t at all surprised to find that he was almost impossible to beat in their second game.  He managed it, but only just, and only after a long battle. 

Harold felt a bit disappointed when Sgt. Pallard arrived to take over guarding him, and Sgt. Mars said good night and left.  Mars was a sharp, eager pupil who absorbed knowledge like a sponge, and laughed easily and often.  He was becoming an interesting chess player as well, and was gracious even when defeated at the game.  Despite his complaints that he didn't need mothering, Finch secretly found his young bodyguard's solicitude touching too.  No one had had tea brought to him at Bletchley, or put a gentle hand on his shoulder if he worked too late, or schemed to make him eat regular meals since Nathan’s death. 

For the first time since then, in Sgt. Mars' bright, kind, agreeable company, Harold Finch felt his deep grief and loneliness start to fade a little.

 

*

 

Sgt. Mars glanced at his watch.  Finch had left his office by nine p.m., earlier than usual.  It was after eleven now.  The weather was stormy, but John had radioed in that all was well, and Sgt. Pallard was on his way to relieve him.  He and Finch had begun a new chess game anyway, to pass the time until Pallard arrived.  It'd become something of a habit lately, that both men enjoyed.

Despite the late hour, Finch seemed as alert as ever.  Though he worked incredibly long hours, John seldom saw Harold look tired, and never heard him complain.  He’d heard the rumors floating ‘round at Bletchley; that Finch had made a deal with the devil, so he never needed to sleep.  The idea amused him.  He knew the truth:  that Finch often drank lots of coffee and worked obsessively, sometimes for several days without stopping, until he collapsed from sheer exhaustion and fell asleep at his desk. 

John had heard other rumors floating around too, about what happened to people who tried to harass Finch.  In some cases, they weren’t just rumors.  Injured as he was, Finch might not be much use in a fight, but as his bodyguard, Mars observed that Harold was far from harmless in other ways.  Finch didn't use his fists, in fact he seldom even raised his voice; but he had other, smarter ways of defending himself.  People who tried to harass him tended to lose their jobs and/or get sent away to bad places.  Lucifer himself had better watch out, John thought wryly, if he tangled with Harold Finch. 

As they bent over Finch’s chessboard, music played softly in the background.  Music was something of a constant at Finch’s house.  It seemed his phonograph was always playing.  At the moment, a woman with an unusually low voice was singing something classical in a foreign language. 

“Who's that singing, Finch?” Mars asked curiously.  Finch’s taste in music was as broad and discerning as his mind, and though John had never paid much attention to classical music before, he found he almost always enjoyed the high-brow music he heard at Finch’s house.  This beautiful piece was no exception.  John didn’t much like opera sung by sopranos; to him, their high-pitched shrieking sounded like cats being tortured.  But this woman’s voice was lower and much more appealing.

Finch smiled.  “That,” he said in a tone of near worship, “is “Ombra mai Fu”, an aria from an opera called “Serse” by Handel, sung by Kathleen Ferrier.  It was originally written to be sung by a soprano castrato,” he added, and Reese winced slightly, remembering Finch’s explanation of what “castrati” were.  “Though Kathleen is a contralto, she has…” Finch paused, as if searching for the right superlative, “a truly sublime voice.”

John listened for a moment, then nodded in agreement.  “That she does.”  He’d heard of Ferrier, though he’d never heard her sing before.  The music was so beautiful, they both fell silent for a few moments, enthralled by it. 

When the song was over, Finch said quietly, “It’s your move, Sergeant.”

John loved to tease Finch, so he hovered his fingers over a pawn for a few seconds, making Finch think he meant to move it.  He waited until Finch frowned, then quickly moved his knight instead.

Finch raised an eyebrow and gave him a look.  Anyone else might’ve thought it was mild, even bland.  But John was getting to know Harold Finch pretty well, and he knew what that particular look said:  _You're toying with me, Sergeant Mars, and I will have my revenge_. 

John smothered a grin.  He loved playing chess with Finch, loved the quiet little scientist’s mastery of and fierce competitiveness at the game. 

“I hear Lt. Snow got transferred out yesterday,” he said.  It wasn't to distract Finch from the game; he already knew that was impossible.  He just wanted to watch Finch’s face closely when he told him.

“Hmm, did he?”  Finch didn’t betray any reaction to that -- not so much as a flicker of an eyelash.  He just studied the board calmly.  It was hard to tell if he’d already known about Snow, or if this was the first he’d heard of it -- let alone if he was responsible.

Still, John would’ve bet good money that Finch was behind Snow’s transfer.  When Snow had introduced him to Finch, he’d noticed their mutual dislike.  He'd heard whispers since that Snow was a thief who'd been running a black market operation, skimming off American Army supplies.    So if Finch had heard the same rumors…  Kind though he was to people he liked, John had also seen that Harold could be a bad bloke to cross, and he hated people who tried to use the war for their own advantage. 

He’s a master at concealing his emotions, too, John reflected wryly.  Damn, but the man was good at that.  The only chink he'd ever seen in Finch's armor was his grief for Mr. Ingram; other than that, he was pretty impenetrable.  Sometimes he wished that Finch played poker.  He’d’ve loved to turn him loose on his buddies in SAS, and watch the brilliant scientist clean up. 

Just for fun, he pried a little more.  “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Mr. Finch?”  His words were mild, but he watched Harold intently.

“Sgt. Mars,” Finch chided, just as mildly.  “What makes you think I have that kind of influence?”

John snorted.  Now he _knew_ Finch was teasing him.  Finch was the head of a huge, top-secret department at MI6, he'd invented “the bombe”, and he had frequent secret meetings with Churchill and his war cabinet, for Crissakes.  Foreign diplomats and scientists often visited Bletchley to meet with him as well.  Finch had influence, all right.  The fact that his fame had spread internationally just emphasized what a genius the scientist was, and made John that much more determined to protect him.  It surprised John that Finch didn’t trade on his reputation more, or use his power more often than he seemed to.  Finch was also incredibly wealthy, and though he didn’t suffer fools gladly, he lacked the arrogance that often came with extreme wealth, and usually treated others well. 

Nevertheless, John had known how powerful Harold Finch was before he ever started guarding him.  It was part of the background information MI6 had given him about Finch; and he knew Harold knew that, too.  He hadn’t really expected Finch to admit what he’d done to Snow, but he couldn’t help probing for some sign of it, all the same.

“Besides.  Since the only place I have any privacy now is when I’m asleep in my own bed, if I _had_ gotten Lt. Snow transferred, wouldn’t you know it already?”  Finch gave him a blandly innocent look.

John smiled wryly.  “I’m not so sure.” 

Finch had a fetish for privacy.  He was good at keeping secrets, even from his own bodyguard.  Mars had spent a fair amount of time waiting outside of partially closed doors while Finch made private phone calls, or worked on top secret documents that even John wasn’t supposed to be privy to. 

But Finch wasn’t always so guarded, at least not lately.  He’d actually asked John to accompany him to top secret meetings of Churchill’s war cabinet a couple of times, though Finch hadn’t really needed his protection there.  The P.M.'s meetings were always surrounded by such tight security that additional bodyguards were superfluous. 

John knew Finch had taken him along just so he could meet the P.M., Lord Beaverbrook, Peter Frain (the head of MI5) and others, and hear a bit of what went on there.  He’d felt honored that Finch trusted him that much.  It’d been interesting to meet men he'd only read about in the papers before, and fascinating to watch Churchill and his cabinet at work. 

Reese respected Churchill enormously, for stubbornly bucking popular opinion and consistently warning the British about Hitler before the war began, despite being ridiculed for it.  He felt they were extremely lucky to have him leading England during the war, rather than that milktoast Chamberlain who'd tried to appease Hitler, and thus condemned millions to subjugation, starvation and death in Eastern Europe.  He figured that Churchill had also been far-sighted in realizing that England would need the help of scientists, not just the military, if it hoped to win the war.  John was proud to be guarding a scientist of Finch’s caliber who was working for the war effort, someone that the P.M. himself consulted.

In person, Churchill seemed larger than life and volatile.  Charming one minute and contentious the next.  He was also the only person John had ever seen hug Finch and call him “Harry”, and get away with it.  Harold was fond of him, John could tell; and it was mutual.  Churchill obviously both liked Finch personally, and was respectful of his professional abilities.  John felt the same.  Thanks to Finch, John had gotten to witness history in the making during those meetings, and he’d never forget it.  It was just one more thing he owed Finch for.

In reply to John's latest hint about Snow's fate, Finch just shrugged.  But the corners of his lips turned up, ever so slightly. 

It wasn’t quite a smile, but John was getting to know him now, and the tiny hint of satisfaction he saw in that quirk of Finch’s lips told John he’d been right.  He didn’t know how Finch had done it, but somehow, he’d managed to get that dick, Mark Snow, transferred out.  And not just to some other base in England, either.  The rumor was, Snow had been shipped out to North Africa!

for the first time, John envied the bastard.  North Africa, the front.  Where he wanted to go back…

He thrust the thought aside.  He had no right to complain.  Jessica was relieved and happy to have him back safe, and he loved being able to go home to her sometimes.  And he had his duty:  to guard Finch.  Sure, it wasn’t combat or covert ops, but it was still important to England and the war effort. 

He’d realized that from the beginning, which was why he'd taken on the lion's share of guarding Finch himself.  He took pride in the responsibility.  Sometimes he thought that maybe what he was doing now was even more important than being a soldier at the front.  There, he was only one man among thousands.  Here, he was protecting a man whose work potentially protected every British soldier everywhere.  Hell, everyone in Britain and America, really.

He’d only been guarding Finch for a few months, but he’d already developed a deep respect for his charge.  Finch was one of the top scientists in Britain.  And though Mars didn’t understand all the intricacies of the incredibly complex German Enigma machine whose codes Finch and his department were always working on cracking, or the equally complex machine Finch and Ingram had built to help them do that, which Finch called “the bombe”, he’d learned enough about both to know how brilliant Harold was. 

John had told himself at first that he was only interested in Finch the way any good bodyguard would be:  professionally.  He watched over the man all day, every day, after all -- if he wasn't curious about him, it would've been odd. 

But he’d soon admitted, if only to himself, that he’d developed a sort of personal fascination with the man.  Maybe because Finch was so intensely private, and hadn't said much at first.  John had always loved a challenge, and it’d become a kind of game with him, trying to peer past Finch’s reserve and find out what made him tick.  The file MI6 had given him on the scientist hadn't helped much, since they'd gutted its contents before John ever saw it.  The remaining information was scant.  Harold apparently had a genius intelligence level and an impressive education:  advanced degrees in math, physics and engineering from Cambridge.  He was Jewish, though he kept that quiet and apparently didn't practice his religion.  He was a prodigiously talented scientist, physicist, engineer and inventor who headed the highly classified 'Ultra' project, as well as the vital Coding and Ciphers department at Bletchley Park.  He was also extremely wealthy and frequently consulted by the Prime Minister. 

That was the extent of the information MI6 had deigned to give him on Finch, and it wasn't much more than John could've picked up on him from the grapevine at Bletchley.  It hadn’t told him anything about Finch’s past before Cambridge, or anything about the man's personality. 

Mars had taken it on himself to study that.  So far, he’d noted that Harold was quiet but intense, with a nearly photographic memory.  He'd learned from the grapevine that Finch and Nathan Ingram had been fellow students at Cambridge, become best friends and gone to work for the war effort at Bletchley together, where they'd designed and built 'the bombe'.  But Ingram had been killed there about six months ago, in a German bombing raid.  One of the few truly personal things John knew about Harold, was how deeply he still grieved for Nathan Ingram. 

He'd also observed that Finch was an expert at codes and ciphers,  wore conservative but expensively tailored suits, loved literature in general and rare old books in particular, was a whiz at chess and fond of a wide range of music:  jazz, classical and opera.  Finch had a huge private library and an extensive record collection at his estate, all of which he’d generously given Mars the freedom to enjoy when he was off duty.  Finch kept a private lab there too, where he “tinkered with inventing things”.  But he was so dedicated to his work at Bletchley Park that he put in very long hours there, and was seldom home to use it. 

Harold also had a wickedly dry, often scathing sense of humor that appealed to John, and a genius’s ability to cut right to the heart of a complex problem swiftly.  Mars liked being around Finch, enjoyed his dry wit and watching his quick, agile mind at work.  He’d also learned that Finch was an excellent teacher, articulate and passionate, with a vast store of knowledge. 

John had learned a few codes and ciphers in the military already, then more in the SAS.  But he'd quickly discovered that his instructors had barely scratched the surface of what Finch knew about the subject.  Not only did he seem to know every code and cipher ever devised throughout history, he’d also invented many variations of his own. 

John had an aptitude for it himself.  He told himself that learning more codes would come in handy overseas, once his bodyguarding detail was done and he finally got to finish his SAS training.  Besides, bodyguard work could be boring.  Working on Finch's codes and ciphers in his head while he guarded him helped Mars stay mentally alert, despite his long hours.

But he soon realized his motives for starting his lessons with Finch weren’t just utilitarian or selfish.  He also wanted to do more than just hover around watching Finch while he worked.  He wanted to interact with him about something the scientist loved.  Coding was both a way to learn more about him, and an excuse to spend time with a man Mars wanted to get to know better.

The coding problems Finch gave him proved so interesting for them both that sometimes on nights when London was being bombed and it was too dangerous for John to drive home to his apartment, his wife would take refuge in the Underground, and John would stay in one of Finch’s many guestrooms.  Finch would take an hour or two and go over John's daily coding lesson before they went to sleep. 

John pushed himself as hard as he could in the scant time they had, not just in an effort to learn, but to gain Finch’s respect.  In return, Finch taught him increasingly complex codes and ciphers that went far beyond the simple military ones he already knew. 

Sgt. Pallard just shook his head when he saw them scribbling things down, or working on codes on the blackboards Finch had at home.  He had no interest in the subject beyond what he'd been taught in the SAS.  But John knew what a favor Finch was doing him.  In return, he tried not to take advantage or use up too much of Finch’s time, despite his interest in what he was learning. 

Sometimes Harold would work for several days before falling asleep at his desk, either at work or at home, at three or four in the morning.  So John made sure to always look Finch over carefully while he drove him to work in the morning.  If Finch looked tired and drank coffee all day instead of his usual favorite tea, it was a sign that he’d been up the whole previous night, and John would cancel their coding lesson later on.  Once he was off duty, he'd either go home to London or if the Germans were bombing London that night, as they did most nights, after he'd confirmed that by calling in to his base, he’d just drive back and sleep on a cot at Bletchley.  He didn't want to contribute to Finch's already overly heavy workload.  The very fact that both British and American intelligence had made protecting him a priority, had told John clearly just how important Finch’s work was to the Allies. 

Besides all that, he liked Finch.  He knew he was far from Harold's equal either in social status or intelligence, but Finch had been good to him, and he’d come to think of the scientist as a friend.  After his first month of guarding Finch, he realized that even if he were somehow offered the chance to return to SAS paratrooper training instead, he wouldn’t take it.  He didn’t want to leave the task of guarding Finch to anyone else, until the Germans who were after him had been caught or killed, and he could be sure that Harold was safe.  As safe as anyone could be, anyway, in England during the Blitz. 

 

*

Much as he enjoyed working on brain-twisting coding puzzles with Finch, John's favorite nights were the ones when he made it home to see his wife.  

Two weeks after Finch started teaching him coding, for once, the air raid sirens weren't sounding off in the distance when they left Bletchley.  So after he drove Finch to his estate and Pallard took over, John called home, then drove back to the apartment he shared with his wife in London.  It took a while.  Despite his eagerness to see Jess, he had to drive slowly and carefully, because the closer he got to London, the more the streets were pitted from bombings.  The street signs had been removed too, in case of German invasion, and he had to drive without headlights because of the blackout.  Due to all that, it was a slow crawl to get home.

When he'd first come home wounded from North Africa, sometimes when he got close to their apartment at night, he could hear the dull thump-thump of anti-aircraft fire from the batteries in Hyde Park and along the Embankment, hear the whine of bombs and smell smoke from burning buildings.  Tonight, for once, it was mercifully quiet as he drove, and his only worry was not hitting another car in the darkness.

John was relieved when he finally made it to his apartment building.  Their apartment in Camden wasn’t much, especially compared to Finch's grand estate.  It was just a tiny one-bedroom with a small kitchen; but crowded as London had become in war-time, they’d been lucky to get it.  Despite the blackout curtains on their windows and its small size, it was John's favorite place in the whole world, because Jessica was there and she made it a home. 

He jogged up the stairs to apt. 243 eagerly.  He was always relieved when he came home and found Jessica safe, and knew she felt the same way about him.  The moment he came through the door that night, Jessica put down the dish she was holding in their tiny kitchen and came to him.  “John!  It's good to have you home, love.”  She wrapped her slender arms around his neck happily and he hugged her, smiling. 

“Hi, sweetheart.”  He was glad she'd waited up for him.  She was wearing a new dress, something light, white and pretty, that seemed to float as she moved.  God, he thought, she’s so damn beautiful...

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite soldier!  Hello, handsome,” she teased, smiling up into his eyes as she kissed him.  “Fancy meeting you here.”

He kissed her back.  “Lucky me,” he grinned.  “What a gorgeous welcoming committee!”

Jessie laughed, a light, sweet sound that was John’s favorite sound in the world.  “Nothing but the best for our soldier boys!”

John shook his head, and tightened his arms around her possessively.  “Huh uh.  What you mean is, nothing but the best for me, and only me.  Right?”

She just rolled her eyes at his teasing.  “Oh, my.  Someone’s full of himself tonight!”

John laughed.  “Who wouldn’t be, with such a beautiful wife?”

He kissed her again, smiling.  He didn’t need anyone to tell him how lucky he was.  Like everyone else in London, in England really, they lived with the daily danger of death from German bombs, or from the collapsed buildings or terrible fires they caused.  No one knew how the war was going to go, or if or when the Germans might invade.  So John never took a night with his wife for granted.  In the moments they were together, life always felt heightened to him.  Colors seemed brighter, laughter sweeter, and sex more poignant and powerful.  Sometimes he came so hard when they made love that he'd shake from head to toe, and cry out loudly.  Sometimes when Jessica lay sleeping in his arms afterward, his feelings ran so deep that he’d get tears in his eyes. 

He'd loved her from the moment they'd met.  Years ago, when he was twenty, he'd sprained his wrist in a rugby match and wound up in hospital.  Jessica had patched him up, and John knew he'd never seen anyone as beautiful as his blonde, brown-eyed nurse.  He'd been struck by her lovely eyes, gentle touch and sweet smile.  Smitten, he'd asked her out on the spot.  He'd married her six months later, and now loved her more than he’d ever imagined he could love anyone.

Jess had dinner waiting for him, and they ate the small meal quickly.  Food was heavily rationed and meat almost unheard of, but John didn’t really care.  The nights that he got to be home alone with Jessica were still special.

When they were done, he helped Jessica do the dishes and put them away.  “How was work today, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Fine,” she smiled.  She always said that.  Jessie was a nurse at Charing Cross Hospital, and despite the long hours she often put in, she never complained about it.  She wanted to help people and loved her work.  John secretly worried that the Germans would make her hospital a bombing target, but so far, they’d been lucky and it hadn’t been hit.

“How's your favorite patient?” he asked.  ''Tabby, the little girl with leukemia?”  Most of the children in London had been sent out to the countryside where it was safer, but Tabitha had been too sick to go.

Jessica smiled fondly, thinking of her patient. “She's doing a bit better now, actually...”

While they talked, John had been half listening to a little radio Jessie had left on in their bedroom.  Just then, he heard her favorite song begin to play:  “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”. 

“Hey, they're playing your song.  Come on, honey.  Dance with me,” he invited, pulling her down the hall after him.  He loved to dance with Jessica.  She was light on her feet, and so graceful it was like walking on air. 

Once they were in their bedroom, she came into his arms with a little smile and laid her head on his shoulder, swaying slowly to the music.  It’d been a long day, and it was 1:30 in the morning now.  He knew she must be tired too, so John let her set the pace.  It was a relief to relax his vigilance, to let go and simply be; to luxuriate in his wife’s beauty, her tenderness.  The softness of her hair against his arm, her breasts against his chest, the sweet, faint scent of her perfume.  The song was beautiful, too. 

 

 _That certain night,_  
_The night we met,_  
_There was magic abroad in the air._  
_There were angels dining at the Ritz,_  
_And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square._  


_The streets of town were paved with stars,_  
_It was such a romantic affair._  
_And as we kissed and said goodnight,_  
_A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square._  


 

Jessie hummed along with the song, breathing the words into his shoulder as they moved.  John sang softly along with her, closing his eyes as their voices and bodies blended, losing himself in the tender moment.  He was home, his wife was safe in his arms, and she loved him as much as he loved her.  He felt it in every touch, saw it in every look she gave him.  It felt like heaven; or as close to it as a soldier like him ever got.

“I was thinking today, John...”

“Hmm?”

“I always try to take extra care of the wounded soldiers we get at the hospital, because...  Well, I often think that any of them could be you,” she said softly. 

John got a lump in his throat.  You're my angel, he thought.  He stopped dancing and just hugged her for a moment.  He hadn't guessed she felt that way.  “Aww, Jess,” he whispered, moved as he always was by her loving heart, her kindness.  “I love you so much, sweetheart.  Did I tell you that today?”

Jessica lifted her head and smiled up at him, her eyes lit with happiness.  “You can always tell me that, John.  I never get tired of it.  And I love you too. ”

As the song ended, John kissed her, then nuzzled her ear.  “Now.  How ‘bout I _show_ you how much I love you?” he breathed.  He’d been thinking about this all day, thinking about how much he wanted to get her alone and make love to her.  He started unbuckling his belt. 

“Good idea.  How about I help you with that, John,” Jessie teased, pulling his shirt out before he even finished with his belt. 

John grinned, letting his hands fall.  “I’d have to be stupid to turn down an offer like that.”

“Yes, and we both know you’re not stupid,” she laughed, pausing to kiss him as she began to undo his shirt buttons.

“I try not to be,” he breathed into her ear, making her shiver.

Her lips were warm and sweet, and once she got his shirt off, they drifted down his neck to his chest.  “Ah ah ah!” John teased, as he shivered pleasantly.  “That's cheating, honey.  I haven't even got my pants off yet!”

Jessica giggled, unrepentant.  “Then get them off, soldier,” she ordered, her eyes dancing.  “'Cause I really, really want to cheat...”  She reached out and tweaked his nipple, making him laugh out loud.

“Sir yes _sir_!” he grinned, slipping out of his pants as fast as he could. 

“That's more like it,” Jessica smiled approvingly as she teased him.  “Hurry!  I thought you SAS blokes were supposed to be fast.”

“I can be,” John grinned as he tore off the rest of his clothes.  “But I thought you liked it _slow_ …”

“Ooh.  Cheeky!” Jessica laughed, sneaking more kisses as she slipped out of her dress.

“And you’re cheating.  Again,” John teased back, not making the slightest attempt to stop her.  By the time they were naked, they were both breathless and laughing. 

John lifted Jessica off of her feet, laid her gently on their bed and laid down beside her, indulging himself in just looking at her for a minute.  She was so gorgeous, tall and slender with soft, alabaster skin and beautiful, warm brown eyes.  Her long blond hair fell softly over her shoulders and onto her ripe breasts...  He loved that he was the only one who got to see her like this, who got to give her pleasure and wring sweet little moans out of her. 

For a moment, she indulged him; then she rolled her eyes and pulled him over on top of her, caressing his back.  “Oh, come _on_ , luv! I'm waiting...”

John laughed out loud, pleased at her impatience.  Lowering his head to kiss her, he smiled, “Okay, honey.  You've got me where you want me.  Feel free to cheat all you want, now.”

And so she did.

She cheated all _over_ the place, John thought, grinning to himself in sated satisfaction later on, while Jessica curled up warm and soft against him, asleep in his arms.

He wasn't sure why he was still awake himself, but he didn't want to wake Jess up, so he just laid there thinking quietly.  As usual these days, his thoughts turned to Finch.  Busy though the scientist was, John often thought that Harold must be lonely.  Not that he ever showed it.  Except when they'd first met and that asshole, Snow had slyly insulted Finch's dead friend, Nathan Ingram, that is.  Harold had frozen then, his face going oddly blank.  Even though Finch hadn't said a word, John had had the distinct feeling Snow had just stuck a knife into a wound so deep, it might never heal.

Though he hadn’t known Finch at all then, Snow's cruelty had still pissed John off.  Now that Finch had become his friend, and he'd seen the reserved scientist cry while remembering Ingram, he wished he’d knocked Snow on his ass for it.  John knew that Ingram had been his best friend for years.  And Finch didn’t seem to be all that comfortable around most people, so losing Ingram must’ve been doubly hard for him. 

Though the women Finch sometimes dated were pretty, elegant and sophisticated, Mars saw no sign that Finch felt passionate about any of them.  Of course, with Harold it was hard to tell, he thought wryly.  Finch never talked about his dates, but then he never talked about much of anything personal.

John just wished that Finch had someone as amazing as Jessica in his life, too.  Any man who worked as tirelessly as Finch did for the benefit of others, deserved to be happy.

He wished he could talk to Jessica about Finch, too.  That desire was so strong, it surprised him sometimes.  The only thing he’d told Jess about his current duty was that he was on a top secret, highly classified assignment of unknown duration, and that he’d make it home to see her as often as he could.  Period, end of story.  It was all he was allowed to tell her.  Saying a word to anyone about the fact that he was guarding Harold Finch would've been considered treason, which was currently punishable by death. 

Jess had accepted that news with a quiet nod, as she always did.  She didn't like not knowing what he did, but she didn’t complain or ask him for information he wasn’t allowed to give. 

He'd always been grateful for her understanding before.  But this time, John was the one who wished he could talk to her about his work.  He couldn’t tell Jess that he was guarding Finch, couldn’t reveal his name or even that Finch was a scientist, let alone that he was the top scientist in charge of the 'Ultra' project.  Aside from the fact that he could be court-martialed or even executed if he said a word to anyone about Finch, John just wouldn’t risk endangering him like that.  Though he trusted his wife, he took his job with the utmost seriousness.  Harold’s safety was his duty and a top priority.  Loose lips, and all that.  But if his assignment hadn’t been top secret, he’d’ve loved to have told Jess all about him. 

He laid there stroking Jessica’s shoulder gently, imagining the conversation he wished they could have about Harold, and how he'd guard his identity by not giving away too much. 

She’d ask him curiously, “What’s he like?  The man you’re protecting, I mean.  I know you can’t give me any details, but just in general.”

He’d hesitate, trying to decide what he could tell her about him that wouldn’t give away Finch’s identity. 

“He’s … the smartest man I've ever met,” he’d say carefully.  “Brilliant, really.  He's got several degrees, is extremely well read and he loves music.  But he's very  guarded.  He doesn’t talk much about himself.”

“Likes his secrets, eh?” Jessica would muse.

“Yeah.  He’s quiet and serious.  Doesn't smile or joke much.  But he’s good to the people he works with, and to me, too.  He’s taught me a lot.  He’s dedicated, and works really hard.  Too hard, sometimes.  He’s patriotic, too.  He loves this country as much as I do.  I trust him, and I really like him.”

Jessica would smile, thinking about it.  “He sounds like a really good person.”

John knew Jess would understand that about Harold, even if he couldn't tell her his name.  “He is.  He’s amazing, really.  He’s also a fantastic chess player.  I’ve never beaten him.”

She’d laugh.  “I don’t believe it!  You, Mr. Competitive?  The Yank who never loses?”

John would laugh, too.  “I swear, it’s true.  I haven't managed to beat him once!  _Yet,_ ” he’d mock growl.

“That’s the spirit!  But even if this bloke is as serious as you say, I’ll bet you get him to smile sometimes,” she’d say fondly. 

In his imagination, John laughed and kissed her.  “Yeah, I do.  Sometimes, I do.”

John sighed to himself as he watched Jessica sleep.  Maybe someday, he thought wistfully, I’ll be able to do that.  Tell her all about Harold.  Hell -- when the war's over, if we win and I survive, I'll do more than that.  I'll introduce her to him...

John fell asleep smiling as he imagined that.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning** :  There is some violence and one scene of torture in this chapter.  To skip the torture, stop reading near the chapter's end when you get to the heading that begins, "Nov. 1943..."

 

**Chapter Two**

 

At 3:00 one afternoon, Finch got a phone call, then went hunting through his top desk drawer.  When he failed to find what he was looking for, he frowned in exasperation and looked over at John.  “I’m sorry, but I have to go home.  I left some papers there – a file that I have to have, for an emergency meeting that was just called for later tonight.”

Judging by the anxious look on Finch’s face, his meeting was probably with Churchill.  John just shrugged, trying not to look too eager.  “Sure, Mr. Finch.  I’ll drive you.”

It was just twenty miles from Bletchley Park to Finch’s estate, and his big black Rolls Royce Wraith was a beauty.  A dream to drive, too, especially compared to the noisy, ugly British Army jeeps Mars had gotten used to lately.  With its solid frame, big, six-cylinder engine, top speed of 135 km. per hour and a smooth ride, the Rolls was also a good vehicle for defensive driving.  John practically salivated, every time he got behind the wheel.  He’d been itching to push the car as fast as it would go.

it seemed Finch had guessed that, because he raised a skeptical eyebrow and said, “Thank you, Sergeant.  But no speeding, please.”

John grinned at him.  “I’ll get you there and back safely, Mr. Finch, don’t worry.  Beyond that, I make no promises.”

Finch rolled his eyes.   “Speed demon,” he muttered as they walked to his car.

Mars just smirked happily. 

A few minutes later, John was driving out of Bletchley into the lush green of the countryside.  It was a gloomy day, but at least it wasn’t raining.  He stomped on the gas at first, just to tease Harold, knowing it would earn him one of Finch's sharp, disapproving looks.  This one came with an arched eyebrow and a little shake of Harold's head that practically screamed, _You big, overgrown child_.  John just laughed and enjoyed the way the landscape was whipping past them a few seconds longer, before slowing the car back to a more normal speed. 

Finch didn't comment.  He just lowered his head and silently began to read files, as he always did in the car.  But out of the corner of his eye, John saw his lips quirk up ever so slightly in his version of a fond smile, and thought maybe Finch had secretly enjoyed the speeding a little, too.

About ten minutes from Finch’s house, on a lonely stretch of heavily forested road, John spotted another car that looked like a black Daimler headed towards them in the opposite lane.  It was far away as yet, but the first time he’d driven Finch to work, he’d identified this isolated part of their route as a danger zone, as it was ideal for an ambush.  So he watched the car carefully, just in case.

“Finch,” he breathed, sitting up a bit as the Daimler kept up a steady speed towards them.  He wasn’t sure why, but all his combat-honed instincts had gone on alert, and he’d learned to trust them.

“Hmm?” Finch murmured absently.  He didn’t look up, still engrossed in his file.

Suddenly the other car crossed over into their lane; and the Daimler's driver wasn’t passing anyone.  There was no one else in sight on the road, and no reason for the car to be there, unless --

 _Finch isn’t going to make that meeting_ , John thought grimly.

Pulling his gun, he said sharply, “Harold!  Get down on the floor!  _Now_!” Before he even finished the sentence, he had a hand on Finch’s shoulder, urging him down.  Though Finch had been absorbed in reading a file, Mars' urgency must’ve gotten through to him.  He dropped his file and followed John’s order instantly, lowering himself, awkwardly but as quickly as he could, down under the dash onto the floor.  Luckily, the big Rolls had plenty of room under the dash for a small man like Finch to curl up in.  Mars himself would never have fit.

“What is it?”

“Ambush.  An assassination attempt, I think.  Just stay down, and do what I tell you,” John ordered calmly, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Right.”

Glad that Finch wasn't panicking, John assessed their situation quickly.  The other car was accelerating toward them.  It was too close already for him to try to turn and make a run for it.  No doubt that was what their pursuers expected.  But if he tried it and they started shooting, they could kill him easily with a head shot from behind, and then either kill or kidnap Finch as well.  It was too risky.  He and Finch would have a better chance if he took the fight to their pursuers. 

Always hated running anyway, John thought wryly.  He sped up, heading straight for the Daimler, knowing they wouldn’t expect a game of “chicken”.  The other car swerved, as if its driver was taken aback by his bold maneuver.  But then it steadied and kept coming.  John had expected that, and watched coolly as the two cars seemed to leap forward.  Closer and closer…

A window slid down on the passenger’s side of the oncoming car.  A hand suddenly emerged from it, holding a gun.  Several shots rang out.  John swerved a bit, ducking as the Wraith’s front windscreen shattered.  He covered his face with his arm for an instant as glass rained inward, along with a blast of cold air.  Luckily, Finch was still down on the floor, out of the spray of glass and protected from it by his overcoat.  John's neck and left hand burned, from myriad shards of glass driven into them from the shattered screen.  But the pain was insignificant, the blood mere trickles, so he brushed at his neck once, then dismissed it.   But he wondered how Harold was doing...

“Bit of glass, is all, Mr. Finch,” he said calmly, to reassure his charge.  “Steady...”

“I'm fine, Sergeant.”  Finch sounded a bit nervous, but he stayed put obediently nonetheless and said bravely, “Don't worry about me.”

“Good man,” John murmured, smiling at Finch's pluck.  He swerved again, widely this time, to make them harder to target.  Then he straightened the car out and took his foot off the gas for a second, to buy him time.  Ducking down to keep his head low, he peered out through the massive hole in their windscreen, to evaluate their attackers. 

The two cars were close enough now that he could see at least three people in the Daimler.  Two in front, one in back, all male so far as he could tell, and all dressed in black.  Both the front passenger’s side window and the opposite back window of the oncoming car were already open, and a man was shooting through each one. 

Smart, John thought.  The driver was concentrating on the road, while his passengers took care of the shooting.  And they'd chosen this lonely spot carefully, too.  There were no side roads here, no turn-offs he could take to escape them.

MI6's intel had been right.  This was an assassination squad, he thought grimly.  The Germans hadn't left this job to a single gunman; they'd hedged their bet and sent a team to kill Finch.  There were two shooters at least, not counting the driver.  Possibly even one more, with his head down in back.  And no doubt all of them were armed and capable of shooting, if necessary. 

John was outnumbered either three or four to one, and they'd taken the first shots and bloodied him slightly.  But he didn't let that faze him.  His injury was insignificant, he was an expert marksman, and he’d faced far worse odds before and lived.  As the other car’s driver floored it and the big Daimler zoomed towards them, he opened the glovebox and pulled out the extra weapon he’d carried since he’d begun guarding Finch.  He quickly pocketed the extra ammo he'd stored in there, too.  From the looks of this ambush, he was going to need it.

Aiming through the hole in the Rolls’ windscreen, John shot at the Daimler’s driver, but the man swerved the car just as he squeezed the trigger.  Through the big hole his bullet blasted in its windscreen, he saw the man in the front passenger seat slump over, with a hole drilled through his head. 

He smiled grimly.  _One down_. He’d meant to kill the driver and send the car out of control, but this wasn’t bad, for this early in the game.  He’d narrowed the odds against them by one, at least.  It was a start.

More shots rang out as the cars hurtled closer.  John felt bullets whiz past his head and over his left shoulder.  One drilled a hole through the Rolls’ rear window.  It was getting damn cold in their car,  with their front and back windows mostly gone and the cold wind rushing through the Rolls as a result, but there was nothing he could do about it.

“John?  Are you all right?” Finch gasped, trying to crawl back out from under the dash so he could see. 

“I'm fine, Harold,” John said hastily, his eyes fixed on their attackers.  “Stay _down_!”  He hung on to the wheel, ticking off seconds in his head till impact.  Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…  He ducked as another bullet whined past his head.  He shot back again, still counting as he urged the Rolls directly towards the oncoming car.  The Daimler’s driver ducked and swerved a bit, then held grimly to his collision course. 

Ten seconds to impact now.  Nine, eight --

Tapping the brakes and wrenching the wheel hard to the side at the last second before the cars collided, John swerved the Rolls sharply off the road and shot it through a gap he'd spotted in the trees.  The car jolted and shook over the rough ground, but John kept going until they were far in off the road.  Then he slowed the car, deliberately letting its front bumper slam roughly into a tree.  He didn’t dare hit it too hard, not with Harold curled up on the floor.  Just hard enough to make their attackers think at first glance that he’d crashed into it because he’d been hit by one of the shots they’d fired.  The Rolls rocked, then stilled, its engine ticking over. 

“Harold!  Up, get up!  Come on!” he ordered.  “We've got to go!”  He grabbed Finch by the collar and yanked him up from the floor, glass sliding off of his overcoat at the sudden move.  He knew his rough treatment was probably hurting the scientist, but he couldn't wait.  The Germans (it seemed a safe bet that’s who their attackers were) would be here any second.  He had to get Finch out of the car and into hiding before they found it, or they’d both be dead.  Finch yelped as John pulled him back up onto the seat beside him. 

“Sorry,” John apologized, hastily brushing the last few shards of glass off of Finch's coat, careless of his own hands.

“John, your neck--don't, you're bleeding!  You're cut--”  Finch reached for him with a worried expression, but John knew any glass cuts he had were only superficial, and brushed him off.  “Later,” he muttered, quickly wiping the blood off his left hand by swiping it across his thigh.  He couldn’t afford to slow down to look at mere cuts now.

He laid his fedora on the back of his seat, tilted to give the impression that he was still sitting there, slumped down a little, either injured and unconscious or dead.  Then he kicked his door open and jumped out, pulling Finch out too, and shut the driver’s door behind them as quietly as possible.

Finch stumbled a little but didn’t say a word, as if he’d grasped the need for silence.  John put his arm around Finch’s waist and hurried the smaller man forward until he found a tree large enough for them both to hide behind, about ten feet further into the forest from the Rolls.  Since he'd wiped his hand and the blood from the cuts on his neck had just trickled down into his shirt collar, he wouldn't leave a trail for the Germans to spot.

He settled Finch behind him, then shot him a quick glance.  He’d been a bit rough hustling him out of the car.  “You okay?”

“Yes.  How did you know --”

“Shh.  Quiet now, questions later,” John murmured, smiling to reassure Finch.  Finch nodded, managing a nervous little smile in return.  He was probably terrified, like any civilian who’d just been shot at would be, but he was braver than most.  He wasn’t shaking or panicking, and he was following Mars' lead without argument -- trusting that he would save him.

John intended to.  He’d give his life for Finch if necessary.  Harold was a friend, and even if he hadn’t been, protecting him was his duty, so failure wasn’t an option.  But John wasn’t worried.  He’d been through much worse than this in combat in North Africa.  Compared to that, this was literally a walk in the park. 

Besides, though the Germans didn’t know it yet, John now had the advantage.  Driving the Rolls into the woods had given him time to set the scene, to make it look like they’d crashed, and that they might be dead or unconscious in the front seat.  He’d also forced their attackers to leave the protective cover of their own car and approach on foot, where he could pick them off more easily from a concealed position.  With one move, he’d both drawn their would-be assassins out into the open, and set a trap for them as well. 

John smiled a little.  The Krauts had clearly planned this little ambush carefully, but he was pretty sure they hadn't counted on him surviving long enough to pull off into the woods, or that he'd use the crash as a cover to set a trap for them in return. 

They weren't the only ones who'd been doing some advance planning.  Over the past few months, Mars had quietly studied Finch's lifestyle and routines, to determine their weak spots; where they'd leave him vulnerable.  He'd identified this route between Finch's work and his home as a distinct vulnerability due to its isolated location, and guessed that if assassins came for him, they might try something like this here.  And he'd had lots of time while he'd guarded Finch lately, to work out different attack/counter-attack scenarios in his head.  All that preparation was paying off now.

He turned to face the car again, his pistol barrel balanced carefully against the trunk of the enormous beech tree that was providing their cover.  He didn’t really need the extra stability; his hands were extremely steady.  He’d just been trained to use everything he could to his advantage. 

“ _John_ ,” Finch whispered tensely.

“Yeah, I hear it,” he replied, under his breath.  The other car was coming their way, rocking its way over the rough ground between the trees.  John estimated their position at roughly two hundred yards in front of them and off to their right at roughly two o'clock.

Then the Daimler's engine cut off and silence fell.  The calm before the storm, John knew.  Turning back to Finch, he held a finger to his lips, warning him to stay quiet.  Finch just nodded, with an arched eyebrow that John could read perfectly.  _Obviously_ , that eyebrow said.

Mars smiled at that as he turned back and waited for their attackers to approach.  If everything went according to plan, soon they’d spot Finch’s Rolls, and come creeping up to look inside it…

A few minutes later, John could hear the faint sounds of men trying to pick their way through the forest as quietly as possible.  _Excellent._   He listened hard, counting footsteps in the rustling leaves, and triangulating each man's position from those faint sounds.  He still only counted two.  Neither assassin spoke, and both sets of footsteps were very quiet, but they were pressing forward confidently, coming for them fast.  _Like they trained for this_... 

MI6 had warned SAS that the Germans might send an assassination squad of some sort after Finch.  They just hadn't known if they'd be spies (Abwehr) or soldiers (probably S.S.).  But those footsteps, as well as every move they'd made so far, hinted that they were a trained military team.  Their tactics were ones Mars might've used himself.

John smiled grimly to himself.  So these were probably S.S. men stalking them.  Hitler's elite.  _That'll make things more interesting_.  _Bring it on, you bastards,_ he thought, everything in him rising to the challenge.  

He'd never tell Finch, but he was enjoying this.  After months of quiet and safety, he was finally getting some excitement, and getting to use his skills to protect Harold.  His heart beat fast with exhilaration.  This was what John had trained for, too.  Hell, this was the kind of thing he _lived_ for, what he sometimes felt he’d been born for:  combat, pitting himself against his enemies.  Everything around him seemed clearer, sharper, and oddly beautiful as he waited, breathing deeply and calmly, for the Germans to show their faces.  Harold was silent behind him; he'd even hushed his breathing.  John was impressed.  Not many civilians would’ve done as well as Finch was, in such a dangerous situation.

The first assassin appeared, ducking his head out from behind a tree for an instant, then gliding forward quickly to take cover behind another tree, closer to the Rolls.  Tall and slender, with an ordinary face, he had dark blonde hair and was wearing a dark hat and suit.  He looked entirely unremarkable; but John knew that wasn't true.  He could tell from the way he moved that he'd guessed rightly:  these men were highly trained soldiers, like himself.  John watched him closely, not wanting to underestimate him.

The tall German moved silently, cautiously but steadily forward.  Since he approached the Rolls first, John guessed that he was the leader, and probably the most dangerous of the two still hunting them.  At least he hoped there were only two left.  There could've been a fourth man hidden in their car, but John had neither heard nor seen any sign of one, and he'd been listening carefully to the number of guns firing at them earlier.  He'd only heard two.  Since he'd already killed one shooter, it seemed likely that this was a three-man team, and that the two men stalking toward them now were the only ones left of it.

John had chosen his position carefully, further into the forest and at a slight angle outward from the driver's side of the Rolls.  Since he'd been the one shooting back at them, and they knew Finch was a civilian, John was betting that the Germans would try to take him out first. Standard military tactic: eliminate the greatest threat first.  So they'd head for the driver's side of the car first, too.  Or so he hoped.  And from the spot he'd chosen as cover, he could pick them off easily when they did--if all went according to plan, that is.  In combat, you never knew.

The tall, thin German gestured silently over his shoulder at his confederate, who was shorter, also blond, and not wearing a hat.  John had just glimpsed him emerging from the trees on the other side of the car.  

Damn, he thought.  He knew what the tall man's signal had meant:  to split up, go around the car.  It was good strategy, what John would've done in their place.  But it made things tougher for him.  Since the second man had moved to the far side of the car, creeping in a half-crouch behind the Rolls, John couldn’t get a clear shot at him yet.

The leader was a different story, though.  _Target number one_ , Mars grinned to himself.  The tall man crept cautiously up to the driver’s side of the Rolls without spotting them, which put him directly in John’s line of fire.  The man turned and looked cautiously all around, before turning toward the driver's door.  Pistol trained on him, John waited silently and patiently for a good shot.  When the German turned and reached for the door handle, raising his gun, John aimed for his right shoulder.  That way he could put the assassin’s shooting arm out of commission, and drop him without killing him.  When he'd been told that the Nazis might send a team after Finch, he’d been ordered to try to take at least one of the assassins alive, if possible.  MI5 wanted one for interrogation, after MI6 got through with him; and their leader would have the most information, so John had been ordered to make him a priority for capture. 

But at the last second, just when John’s finger closed on the trigger, the German must've seen that the car was empty except for John's hat.  He whirled around, and John's shot caught him high in the chest, instead of the shoulder. The tall German gasped, crumpled and laid still, his eyes open and fixed in a look of surprise.  John figured he was probably dead before he'd hit the ground.

He had no time to worry about it, though; because the instant his leader fell, to Mars' surprise, the second assassin bolted away into the woods.  

“Stay here,” he ordered Finch quietly, “and stay down!  Don’t move till I get back!”  Finch nodded.  John was sure the assassin who'd just run off was the last of them.  Still, just in case he was wrong, he wasn't about to leave Finch defenseless while he chased him down.  He pulled out his extra revolver and pressed it into Harold's hand.  “I've gotta get him, and I think he's the last one, but just in case, here.  Here's the safety,” he reviewed quickly, “and here's how you release it.  Brace yourself and use both hands if you have to shoot, remember?  Just like I showed you.  And if another one of them shows up, don't hesitate.  Shoot to kill.”

Harold nodded, pale but resolute  as he took the gun.

John hadn't spent all of his time with Finch just learning codes.  They'd kept it secret, but several times when John had supposedly driven Finch away from Bletchley for meetings, they'd actually gone to Finch's estate so he could give Harold shooting lessons with this same revolver.  Finch had been reluctant, but Mars had insisted on it.  He'd wanted Finch to have every possible advantage, in case this day ever came. 

Harold nodded, looking nervous but holding the gun easily enough.  John clapped him on the shoulder, glad to see that his shooting lessons had paid off.  “Stay here and don't worry, I'll be right back.”

The fleeing German had disappeared, so John eased cautiously out from behind the tree.  All was quiet, so he picked up the dead German's gun, made sure the safety was on, tucked it under his belt and sprinted off after the other one.

John didn’t bother trying to be stealthy as he ran.  The second he’d killed his partner, the other assassin had known he was alive and that he'd be gunning for him next.  So he tore through the trees, running hard in the direction the German had gone.  The German had abandoned caution in favor of speed too.  John could hear him crashing through the woods ahead of him.  He put on a burst of speed, wanting to catch the S.S. bastard before he had a chance to circle back and try to harm Harold again, if that's what he was up to.  The trees were large and closer together here, and branches whipped at him as he moved, but he just pushed himself faster, his long legs eating up the ground between him and his prey.

 _Ahh, there.  Gotcha_ , _you bastard_! John exulted as he spotted the other German.  The blond was running full out too.  But judging by the way he'd fled and the look of fear he shot over his shoulder when he heard John behind him, he knew the game was up, and figured that he was a dead man if caught.  Maybe he wasn't making another try at Finch after all.  He was just trying to get away, to save his own ass.  Judging by his empty hands, he seemed to have lost his gun, too -- though John knew better than to count on that.

This Kraut can run, John thought, smiling to himself as he pursued.  _Just not quite as fast as I can._

John kept himself fit with daily early morning runs, so he wasn’t even breathing hard as he quickly gained on the fleeing German.  He’d be close enough soon to take him down.  But he’d killed the other two would-be assassins, so he had to be more careful with this one.  He could've shot him easily from this distance, but orders were orders.  There had to be someone left for the higher-ups to interrogate. 

He'd learned German before the war, and gotten better at it in Africa.  It came in handy when dealing with the enemy.  He took a chance and shouted, “ _Sie da!_   _Halt!_   Stop, or I’ll shoot!” 

He didn’t really expect it would work.  But to his surprise, the man faltered for a second, shooting another terrified look over his shoulder. 

John showed his teeth in a wolfish grin and made sure the German got a good look at his gun, raising it as he ran.

The German had made a mistake, darting a look back at him.  He stumbled over something and went down hard, with a crash, a groan and a curse; and while he struggled to get up again, Mars hurtled forward, closing the last bit of distance between them.

John wanted to laugh out loud.  Instead, he stopped beside the fallen man.  Pointing his pistol at his head, he grinned, “I believe I said 'Halt', not fall on your ass.  But this'll do.”

From his prone position, the man held up his hands, his face white with fear.  “Don’t shoot!” he pleaded, in a heavy German accent.  “Bitte!  _Please_!”

  Not so brave now, are you?  Mars thought contemptuously.

“Shut up, and I might not,” he warned, turning serious.  He’d had his fun, but this asshole had just tried to kill Finch; and he wasn’t going to go easy on him.  He was glad he'd killed the other two assassins, and he'd've shot this one too, if he hadn't been ordered not to. 

The blond man instantly, wisely fell silent. 

He obviously understood English just fine.  Watching him carefully, Mars ordered, “On your feet.  NOW!  Keep your hands up.”

The German scrambled up awkwardly, raising his hands once he'd gained his feet.  He still looked a bit edgy though, Mars thought.  The blond looked him over intently, like he was considering jumping him in a desperate attempt to escape.

To prevent that, Mars pointed with his pistol.  “Turn around and wrap your arms around that tree.  Good and tight.”

Once he did, John patted the man down expertly, to make sure he wasn't still carrying any concealed weapons.  After finding a large, wickedly sharp Eickhorn hewer knife in a leg holster on his ankle, John's anger grew.  They were heavy-bladed and no good to throw -- made for cutting.  Fucking Nazi _bastard_ , he seethed silently, knowing that knife could've been used to torture or kill Harold.  Still, he'd gotten plenty of practice at keeping his anger in check during combat.  It was second nature now, so he just disarmed his prisoner silently, removing both his holster and knife and shoving them under his belt for safe-keeping.

Whipping out the handcuffs he carried, he pulled the German’s arms back behind him and cuffed him securely.  Then he held his gun to the side of his captive's head, pressing hard.  “How many of you are there?  Tell me, or I’ll kill you right now,” he growled, letting anger edge his voice to make the threat convincing.

“Three!” the German gasped.  “Three of us!  _That is all_!”

If he was telling the truth, that was good.  Mars had already killed the other two, so that meant the threat was neutralized.  But he wasn’t taking anything this Kraut said for granted.  He pressed the gun in a little harder.  “If I find out you’re lying, if anyone else shoots at us, I’ll kill you,” he rasped, meaning it. 

''There were three of us.  I _swear_!'' the assassin repeated desperately. 

John pulled the man around in front of him and stared into his eyes for a minute, tilting his head as he studied him intently.  He was good at spotting lies, but the Kraut looked like he was telling the truth, so John pointed back in the direction they’d come.  “All right.  Now move!  Quietly, or I’ll shoot.  And keep your hands up, where I can see ‘em.”

He gave the German a shove, staying carefully behind him and listening hard to the woods around them, just in case.  He had to get back to Finch.  He didn’t want to leave him alone any longer in case the assassin was lying, and there’d been a fourth man hiding in the back seat of the Daimler who he hadn’t seen yet.  At this point it was highly unlikely, but he wasn't going to take any chances when there might still be another assassin creeping around in the woods.

Evidently his prisoner had been telling the truth, though.  Mars stayed on full alert all the way back to Finch’s car, but saw and heard nothing unusual, and no one shot at them.  The German kept silent the whole way, and made no further attempts to escape; but Mars could sense his desperation and knew he would, given the chance.

Once they reached the Rolls, John ordered, “Stop.”  When the German did, he clipped him hard on the side of the head just above his ear with the butt of his pistol.  A move he’d learned in the army, a way to knock a man out with one blow, without permanent damage.  The blond assassin dropped like a stone in the leaves beside the Rolls and didn’t move, even when John nudged him with his boot.  Satisfied that he was unconscious, John took one last careful look around the little gap in the trees.  He saw nothing moving, and since his prisoner was cuffed and would be unconscious for some time, he hurried to get Finch.

When John drew him out from the cover of the tree they’d hidden behind, Finch’s eyes were wide, and he was still clutching the pistol tightly. “John!  Are you all right?” 

He's still rattled, Mars thought fondly.  He keeps calling me by my first name.  Finch’s gaze travelled over him anxiously from head to toe too, as if he were checking him for bullet holes.  But Harold was unharmed, and John started to relax, happiness spreading through him.  If there'd been any assassins left, they'd've shot at them by now.  So it was all over, and he'd won!  Better still, he'd gotten Finch through it without a scratch.  Triumph filled him.

“I’m fine, Harold,” he grinned.  “Hell, I’m better than fine!”  He’d just foiled an assassination attempt by what was most likely a three-man S.S. squad and managed to take one of the Germans alive, to turn in to MI6 for questioning.  MI5 would want a crack at him afterwards, too.  But John didn't care that much about the aftermath. What really mattered to him was, he’d kept Harold safe. 

He'd worried about the threat to Finch for months.  Now that he'd eliminated it and saved him, John was more than happy, he felt jubilant.  Even better than he'd felt after he'd saved his buddies at El Alamein; because unlike most of them, Finch wasn't badly wounded or dying.  Hell, he didn't have a scratch on him.  That gave John a bone-deep sense of satisfaction. He couldn't help but smile.

 _I kept Harold safe_.

Still, he was touched by Harold’s concern.  Finch was the one who’d been in the most danger, yet the scientist seemed more worried about him than he was about himself.  John smiled fondly at his friend, and reached out gently.  “You can give me the gun now, Harold.  It's all over.”

 

************************************************************************

Harold stared at Sgt. Mars anxiously.  Though he’d remained as quiet and calm as he could during the attack, from the moment Mars had told him to get down on the floor of the car, Finch’s heart had filled with fear.  When bullets had shattered his car’s front windscreen, it had brought back horrific memories of another time several years ago, that had also been filled with the ugly, frightening sounds of gunfire and shattered glass.  A wave of cold terror had swept over him, especially when he'd looked up and seen John covered with glass, his neck and hand bleeding where it had pelted him.  When the Sgt. had run off to chase down their one remaining assailant, Harold had felt something like panic rise in his throat.  Despite the situation, it'd been all he could do not to call out to him to stop. 

At that moment, none of Finch's fear had been for himself.  But the overwhelming intensity of his fear for John Mars, the way he’d felt almost sick once the already bloodied soldier ran out of sight – Finch suspected he knew what all that meant.

 _Oh no_...

He’d known Sgt. Mars posed a threat to him (or at least, to his emotions) the moment he’d laid eyes on the handsome young man.  But the force of the feelings he’d developed for him anyway, despite his determination not to, had surprised Finch.  He’d expected to feel some attraction, and he'd cautiously allowed himself to feel friendship, to take a private pleasure in Mars's bright, agreeable company.  Especially once he'd begun to further John's knowledge of coding.  But _this_ – this awful, wrenching feeling deep inside that if John Mars died, if he lost him like he'd lost Nathan, it might _break_ him --

 _This is unacceptable_ , he told himself harshly.  His feelings had gone too far, become too deep.  He didn't want to use the word 'love', even to himself.

It wouldn’t do to let Mars see even a hint of _that_.  No doubt he’d be revolted, and never want to lay eyes on me again, Finch thought harshly, not sparing himself any pain.  He didn’t deserve to be spared, because despite all his considerable knowledge and self-control, he hadn’t managed to control his emotions.  He knew his feelings for Sgt. Mars were misplaced.  John was attracted to women, not men, and very happily married besides.  The most Harold could ever hope to be to him was a friend. 

But even those harsh truths couldn't change how he felt.  At the moment, his emotions were so strong that he could barely contain them.  John had shrugged off his cuts as inconsequential, and perhaps he was right; but what if the man he was chasing shot him?  He had a gun, Harold had seen it...

He waited, his heart racing painfully, for what seemed like forever before the Sgt. returned. 

When he did, Finch was infinitely relieved to see that Mars was now herding the German he'd been chasing in front of him at gunpoint.

 _Thank God_ , was all Finch could think.  _Oh, thank God_!  John hadn’t been killed.  In fact, it seemed he hadn’t been harmed at all.  When he hit the last of the would-be assassins on the side of the head with his gun and the man dropped into the fallen leaves, Harold drew a deep breath of relief. 

Still, when Mars came forward to collect him from his hiding place, Finch couldn’t help asking if he was all right, and looking him over to make sure he hadn't been wounded any further, during the chase.  Despite his bloodied neck and hand, the Sgt. just smiled and said he was fine.  “Hell, I’m better than fine!” 

He certainly looked it.  It seemed odd but despite the circumstances, Sgt. Mars seemed cheerful, even happy.  Like the unexpected, violent attack and conflict had somehow been _fun_ for him. 

How extraordinary, Finch marveled, his curiosity surging to the fore for a moment.  Are all soldiers like that?  No, of course they’re not, he corrected himself.  Many men panic in combat; so John is unusually cool and courageous.  He himself had been terrified, which he knew was a far more common reaction to being in deadly peril.  Adrenaline flowed, the body was keyed up for a “fight or flight” response, a built-in survival instinct… 

If Sgt. Mars had been afraid during the attack, Finch had never seen it.  John had remained cool, calm and collected throughout the whole ordeal and acted with lightning speed, making all the right decisions, all the right moves necessary to save him. 

 _Forti nihil difficle,_ Harold thought admiringly _._ Nothing is difficult to the strong…

He still marveled at how swiftly John had assessed the situation, and how boldly he'd acted.  Harold himself hadn’t even seen the would-be assassins’ car yet when the Sgt. had ordered him to get down, then hit the gas and sent their car straight at them.  Though he couldn't see from his position down on the floor, Harold had felt the thrum of his Rolls’ engine as it accelerated, and he'd guessed what Mars was doing.  It’d sent his heart into his throat.  To him, rushing straight at their pursuers like that had seemed like a crazy, possibly even suicidal tactic.

But he'd trusted Mars and kept quiet, and it had worked -- which was the litmus test, Finch supposed, for effective combat tactics.  He wondered if John’s combat experience could account for his differing responses to the terrifying situation.

No, he concluded, John’s wolfish grin giving him a rare flash of insight.  Mars was just fundamentally different from him.  Rather than being terrified by conflict, he welcomed it, even thrived on it.  Finch guessed that the adrenaline rush of it must exhilarate him, make him feel keenly alive.  Perhaps the keenly competitive part of him enjoyed the contest of combat.  That, along with his deeply ingrained desire to protect others, must be why he’d become a soldier, why he’d sought out such a dangerous profession in the first place.

As he looked at John, Harold’s curiosity receded, replaced again by emotion.  A huge wave of relief swept over him at his friend’s safe return.  John had gone up against a team of armed men all alone, and emerged with only a few cuts from shattered glass to show for it.

Amazing, Finch thought. 

For the second time, he had an uncharacteristic urge to throw his arms around his handsome bodyguard and hug him.  This time, he wanted desperately to touch John to confirm that he really was all right, whole and unharmed.  Nate had been tactile and an enthusiastic hugger, a trait which Harold had always secretly loved.  He'd grown used to Nathan's big, strong hands taking his arm or patting his back; to the warm, welcome weight of his arm wrapped fondly around his shoulders or his back.  Now that he was gone, Harold had no one to touch, or who touched him except for Sgt. Mars, in casual, helpful ways. 

Though he secretly enjoyed John's touch too, Finch had been careful never to initiate such contact himself, for fear that Sgt. Mars would discover his bent if he did.  He still had no idea if John would permit such an intimate gesture from him, even under these circumstances.  Navigating the waters of personal interactions had always been difficult for him, and he desperately did not want to embarrass himself any more than he already had, in front of John. 

Suppressing the no doubt inappropriate impulse ruthlessly, Finch held his hands rigidly at his sides.  It was an effort to remain silent though, to hold still instead of reaching for John – much more of an effort than usual.  But he managed it somehow.  Still, despite the Sgt.’s reassurance that he was fine, Harold could not seem to stop staring at him. 

John looked—different, Finch thought, in a way he found difficult to pin down.  Despite the way they'd suddenly been ambushed, Mars had just managed to kill two armed assailants and capture a third, without getting any more than a few cuts himself.  Out-numbered three to one in a surprise attack, he’d still emerged victorious and smiling.  But a sort of change had come over him once the attack began, which still lingered.  A sort of tension crackled about him, and there was an edge to John's smile, a dark look in his eyes that Harold had never seen before. 

The man who’d ordered him down onto the floor of the car so forcefully earlier wasn’t the bright, sunny young man who’d learned codes from him, or the teasing young man who often played chess with him either.  Harold suddenly realized, he’d never really met _Sgt. John Mars_ before. 

He was looking at him now, and thought that he should probably be at least a bit frightened.  His familiar friend and bodyguard had been replaced by a commanding man with a dark, feral grace.  When he’d sped off after their last assailant, John had looked as fleet and savage as a lion running down a gazelle.

Like a predator at the very top of the food chain, Finch reflected.

It should’ve given him shivers.  But he felt no fear of Sgt. Mars.  If anything, he felt a mingled, confusing sense of awe, and some sort of erotic thrill he didn’t understand and couldn’t define.  He only knew he’d never felt it before.  But he’d never been in the presence of a handsome, energized, and very lethal friend who’d just killed two men and knocked out a third to protect him before, either.  Given that, he supposed he was allowed a bit of surprise and confusion.  He filed his unprecedented reaction away, memorized it so he could examine and hopefully better understand it later, when his emotions weren’t quite so overwhelming. 

His estimation of John Mars’ courage and competence, which had already been extremely high, had just soared.  Nathan used to tease him that he'd been born to be a scientist.  If that fanciful notion were true, then surely Sgt. Mars had been born to be a warrior.  Harold thought, for the hundredth time, how extremely fortunate he’d been to have Mars assigned as his bodyguard.  No matter how deep and painful his feelings for the handsome soldier had become, there was no question that John had just saved his life.

Perhaps that’s why I feel no fear of him, Finch reflected.  He's never been violent with me; he's always gentle and kind.  And every dangerous, violent thing he just did, he did for me -- _to protect me_.  He remembered the first night they’d met, when he’d been studying John’s military files and realized just how deep his protective impulses went. 

 _I don’t believe that John would ever hurt me_ …

Finch finally handed over the gun, suddenly realizing that he’d been standing staring at John for quite some time.  He felt so many strong emotions, it was extremely difficult to absorb them all, to contain them and prevent them from showing.  He wondered if what John had just done was also in some way vengeance for the two friends he'd told him about, who the Germans had killed.  He felt humbled, awed, admiring, a bit aroused, yet also appalled -- at his own unruly feelings, and by the dead man lying at his feet. 

But perhaps while trying to suppress his torrent of emotion, he’d stayed silent for too long. 

John put a hand on his shoulder, looking concerned.  “You sure you’re okay, Finch?”

Finally, the touch Harold had craved.  It reassured him, but also made him long to reach out in return.  He suppressed the impulse again ruthlessly, reminding himself of how much Sgt. Mars would loathe and despise him, if he ever learned of his true feelings.  Finch straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath instead, trying to recover himself.  “Yes.  I’m fine, Sergeant.  Thanks to you, I am completely unharmed.”

Sgt. Mars smiled, and in that moment, most of the dark energy that’d been driving him during the attack seemed to finally disappear.  Suddenly Harold could see his familiar friend and bodyguard looking out at him from John’s eyes again.  They warmed and crinkled at the edges, as they only did when John’s smile was genuine.  He looked pleased, even – fond, Harold thought, confused.  Though he didn’t understand why John should be in any way pleased with how little use he’d just been in a dangerous situation, Harold’s heart gave an odd little leap at the warmth in his friend's smile nonetheless.  Until Mars spoke.  “Well, you had something to do with that too, Harold.  I’ll make a soldier outta you yet!” he teased.

Finch knew John meant it kindly.  But his words tore at him instead, made him deeply ashamed of his own physical inadequacies.  He just shook his head, trying to conceal his reaction.  He didn’t want the Sergeant to guess just how lacking his strength, grace and bravery often made him feel by comparison.  “I think not, Sgt. Mars,” was all he said. 

Mars just laughed, and clapped him gently on the shoulder.  “I’m just saying -- you did really well, Harold.  I’m proud of you.”

John was _proud_ of him?  Oh, that was just – impossible.  Wasn’t it? 

Finch blinked, undone by John’s teasing, by the warmth on his face and in the big hand that lay gently on his shoulder.  He bit back a scathing reply, because the Sergeant's praise was very kind and clearly sincere.  But it just made him feel doubly bad, for having been unable to help when they were both in such peril. 

In a moment of painful honesty, he admitted to himself that once again, someone he loved had been in mortal danger, and he'd failed to lift a finger to save them.  That failure burned deep, so deep that it ripped away his usual self-control.  He looked down, avoiding John’s eyes, but he couldn't stay silent. 

“For what?  It was your skill with a gun, and your quick thinking and courage that saved us.  I didn’t do anything but hide behind a tree,” he said bitterly.

It wasn’t the first time Harold had felt so terribly helpless, either.  The memories this attack had brought back were so dire that once again, he felt a sort of searing self -loathing.  A contempt for his habit of devoting himself to his intellect, rather than physical endeavours.  It was bitterly ironic.  Though his devotion to science and reason had made him a vast fortune, they'd left him ill-equipped to defend himself physically; and the injuries he'd received as a result, now made him even more useless in such situations.  He didn’t deserve John’s approbation, his fondness or any compliments either.  Sgt. Mars had done it all.  He’d protected Finch, reacted quickly and devised a clever counter-attack that had kept them both alive.  If not for him, Harold knew he wouldn’t have survived this assassination attempt. 

Again, though Finch had been present at a violent scene, he hadn’t taken action.  He’d allowed his own terror to paralyze him, and just blindly done whatever John told him.  Luckily for him, Sgt. Mars was superb at armed combat.  But despite his own relative lack of experience, Harold knew he should’ve done _something._ If not to protect John, then at least to help him defend them both.  Since Nate's death, John Mars had quickly become the most important person in his life.  Yet John had just had bullets whizzing around his handsome head -- bullets that'd been meant for Finch. 

If John wasn’t such a superbly gifted soldier, he would’ve been killed; and I’d've been directly responsible, Harold thought.  The shame and horror of that, added to the burden he already carried, were intolerable.  He hated it when people treated him as helpless; yet once again, when it counted most, he _had_ been.

 _This cannot continue_.   

Nathan's words rang in his mind again:  _Find a way to make the world a better place, or else what's the point of living?_ And John's question too, which Harold had asked himself a thousand times; _Why me, and not them_?

 _This is why_ , Harold realized.  In the aftermath of another scene of blood and terror, he finally found his answer.  _I survived because I'm meant to do this -- for them._

He felt as if he'd been struck by lightning.  What had seemed so dark before, now seemed so clear.  Harold had already thought of a way to improve things after the war, if the Allies won.  A task that would be very necessary, and for which he would be, at least in some ways, uniquely suited.  The problem was, it would also be extremely dangerous.

But if Sgt. Mars had let fear hold _him_ back just now, they would both be dead.  He must be equally bold.

Harold's new clarity was a flame that burned away all his doubts.  He was not a man who made rash decisions based on emotion, but in that moment, he did.  His secret, the project he'd been contemplating for several years, but been too afraid to start – in that moment of bitterness and self recrimination, it held out hope of redemption.

Harold promised himself he would make it a reality.

Deep in his soul, he vowed that this would be the last time he would ever be so useless when the lives of good people were at stake, and he was confronted by evil.  Injured though he was, from now on, he would fight back.  If he survived the war, he'd dedicate himself to being of use to the world in a whole new way. 

He'd lost Nathan, his own family, and just now Sgt.  Mars had been in deadly peril too, because of him...  The war was no longer abstract deaths, not merely grim casualty statistics or horrifying newspaper articles or newsreels of starving, suffering people in Europe.  It'd come even closer than the nightly shriek of bombs over England.  The war had invaded Harold's own life, taken those dearest to him.  The Nazis had declared war on his adopted country and his people, had taken his family and Nathan, had come almost to his front doorstep to kill him, and nearly killed another good friend in the process -- one of the few he had left.  A splendid young man whose beauty, kindness, courage and generosity reminded him so much of Nathan. 

The war had become intensely personal for Harold.  It was finally time for him to do more than invent machines and decode messages, in order to fight it.  He wasn't a soldier, but still, he needed to _act_. 

He resolved to begin concrete plans for his project that very day.  He was perfectly placed to gather intelligence from many excellent sources.  And once the war was over, in a decidedly imperfect future whose shape Harold could already foresee…  If England wasn’t conquered or destroyed by the Nazis and he survived, he would begin a new mission. 

 _No matter what, I will not fail my friends, my people, or humanity itself again_.

 

*

 

After making sure John was all right, Harold had gotten far too quiet.  He looked pale, and seemed traumatized or guilty, or both.  He wasn't talking, but John sensed that his brilliant mind was churning furiously all the same.  What was he thinking?  Judging by what Finch had just said, it probably wasn't good – but what he'd said was just plain _wrong_. 

It was the first time John had caught a glimpse of how deeply Finch’s injuries had damaged his pride.  He still didn’t know what had caused them, though.  He'd asked around, discreetly of course, but no one knew.  The brief file MI6 had given him on Finch hadn’t given him an answer either.  He'd overheard Finch's housekeeper mention to her husband recently that Harold had had surgery in a private clinic in London in November of 1938.  John knew that was when he'd come back from a trip to Austria, and guessed that it had to do with Harold's bad leg.  It was more than anyone else seemed to know about it, but not even remotely enough to satisfy Mars.  What kind of surgery had Finch had, and what was its outcome?  And why had he needed it?  John still didn't know.

Driven, dedicated, brilliant, internationally renowned and somehow injured badly enough to limp and have a stiff hip and neck -- that seemed to be the sum total of what most people knew about Finch.  For such an important scientist, Harold was something of a mystery.  Even British Intelligence didn’t seem to know the source of his injuries; or if they did, they hadn't seen fit to share that info. with John.  The gossip grapevine at Bletchley, though remarkably accurate about most things, was equally at a loss about it.  Apparently, Finch had never told anyone what happened on that mysterious trip, or where he’d gone in Austria; though John wondered if Nathan Ingram had known.  If he had, he seemed to have gone to his grave without telling anyone else. 

As far as John knew, Harold’s trail had just disappeared in Austria.  He wondered if that'd been his destination though, or merely a stop on the way to somewhere else -- and exactly how and why he'd been injured during that time.  Had Finch been spying for MI6 on that trip?  That might explain why MI6 had kept the information out of Harold's file.

Mars had been smart enough not to mention Harold’s injuries, either.  He’d quickly observed that Finch hadn’t let them define him.  In fact, he pushed himself far past his own limits all the time, ignoring his pain and not just getting his job done, but excelling at it.  John admired him for that, and for so many other things.

So he hated to see Harold put himself down.  Despite his injuries and pain, Finch worked tirelessly for his country, and his brilliant decoding and scientific work had saved countless lives.  Though he told himself it was possible Finch had just been injured skiing or at some other harmless pursuit, John had always had an uneasy feeling that Harold might've been spying or up to something intensely personal when he'd gone to Austria, and been injured by an assailant.  It would explain some other things he'd noticed about Harold.  How he disliked most people touching him, for example.  Though he never seemed to mind when Mars did it, John had always been careful and gentle with him, out of respect. 

Though he'd kept it quiet, Finch was also Jewish, and Jews had been singled out for persecution in Europe for years now.  Austria had been a dangerous place for Finch to go, even in 1938.  The Nazis had targeted Finch for assassination partly because of his religion.  If Finch had been attacked because of it earlier too, Mars found himself wishing he could shoot the bastard who'd hurt him, like he’d just shot those Germans who'd dared to try to kill him near his own home.

But since he didn’t know what had caused Finch's injuries, all he could do was try to make sure Finch didn’t feel diminished by them.

“That’s not true!” he said firmly.  “You did a helluva lot more than that, Harold.  You’re not armed and you’ve had no combat training, but you stayed calm and followed orders under fire.  You were really brave, and you did a damn sight better in a tough situation than some soldiers I’ve seen!  So don’t sell yourself short.”

Finch shook himself, as if emerging from very deep thought, and gazed up at John sharply, searching his eyes.  When Mars just looked back at him steadily, willing Finch to believe him, the pinched, unhappy look slowly faded from Harold’s face.  “Thank you.  That’s – very kind of you,” he said quietly.  “And it means a great deal to me.”  He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.  “I owe you a great debt, Sergeant Mars.  Your courage and quick thinking saved my life.  Ask me for anything and it’s yours, I promise.”  His slightly formal phrasing had the ring of a vow. 

Mars stared at him in surprise.  He was really happy that he’d foiled the assassination attempt on Finch, and he’d meant what he’d just said about Harold's actions today.  But he hadn’t expected that kind of a response from his reserved friend.  He’d never heard Finch talk like that to anyone before.  John was touched by his high praise and his offer, but he shook his head and smiled.  “I don’t need a reward.  It’s my job, Finch.”

Finch looked away again, but not fast enough to mask the flicker of disappointment in his eyes.  His face went blank, the way it had that day Snow had hurt him.  “Ah, yes.  Of course.  I should've realized, you were just doing your duty.  Forgive me, Sergeant,” he murmured, sounding embarrassed.

_Shit!  Now he thinks I only saved him because I get paid for it!  Jesus._

Mars cursed himself for carelessly wounding Harold.  Realizing his mistake, he put his hand on Finch’s shoulder again.  When he looked up, John said quietly, “But that isn’t why I did it, Harold.  Look, you remember what I said before we left?”

Harold thought for a second, looking confused.  “’I’ll get you there and back safely, Finch?’” he quoted.

“That’s right,” Mars smiled.  “I promised to keep you safe, Harold.  I don’t make promises lightly, and I always keep them.  Especially to friends.”

John’s reward was the smile Harold gave him then:  a small, sweet, delighted smile that John had never seen before.  “Thank you, John,” Finch said softly, looking shyly pleased.  “I'm honored that you count me as one of your friends.  And I...well, I feel the same.”

Then Finch sobered, as if remembering where they were, and what had just happened.  “Is he – are they – dead?” he asked, nodding at the two Germans who lay near them.  He sounded a bit shaken and still wary, as if he still wasn’t quite sure if it was all over.  Mars wondered if Finch had ever seen a dead man before, let alone a man who’d been killed on his behalf.  He didn’t want him to have nightmares over this.  He made a mental note to have Pallard quietly check in on Finch at night for a while, to make sure that he was sleeping okay.

“Two of them are dead.  One in their car, and the tall one here.  The guy I just brought back though, I just knocked him out,” he explained. 

Finch nodded.  “Good.  MI6 will want to speak to him, no doubt.  MI5 as well.”

“Yeah.”  John wasn't surprised that Finch had guessed what would happen to the prisoner.  It was hard to stay a step ahead of Harold. 

SAS was part of MI6, so these guys would go to them first.  MI5 would want them too, but the higher-ups could fight over which intelligence branch got to interrogate the one he'd captured later.  John's job was just to bring them in.

“He'll be unconscious for a while, but I’m gonna cuff him in the back seat on the drive back anyway,” Mars explained, “so even if he wakes up, he won't give us any trouble.”  Harold had been frightened enough already.  John wanted him to feel as safe as possible, while he disposed of what remained of the team sent to kill him. 

After he'd finished cuffing the unconscious German in the back seat, he turned back to Harold.  “Okay, it's safe to get back in the car now, Finch.  I have to call this in to my C.O.”

“Yes, of course.” 

While Finch got back in the Rolls’ front seat, John took a minute to search the tall assassin, the one he'd shot as he'd crept up on the Rolls.  If it'd been up to him, he'd've left the bodies of both of the Germans he'd killed lying in the woods where they'd fallen.  Let the crows pick their damn bones, for trying to kill Harold -- especially this one's.  He'd seemed like their leader, which made him responsible for the attack.  But it wasn't up to John, and after a quick search of the leader's pockets, he'd decided it’d be better to take his body back to MI6 right now as well.  The man was carrying papers written in German that they’d want to examine. 

 _Schutzstaffel_ orders, he noted after a brief glance.  Just as he'd suspected, although they'd dressed in civilian clothes to disguise themselves, these bastards were S.S. 

 _Whatever Nazi’s behind this – maybe Himmler himself -- your fucking evil attempt to kill my good friend Harold just got royally FUBAR,_ John thought, with deep satisfaction.  _So much for the best-laid plans of the so-called ‘Master Race’_. _Now all your 'Aryan supermen' are either dead or in custody._   _And when MI6 is done questioning the one guy I left alive, he’ll hang too.  So **fuck you, you murderous assholes**!  You lose._

Smiling grimly to himself, he called in briefly on his radio.  He reported the attack to the SAS, but assured his C.O. that Finch was safe and unharmed, and that he was bringing back two dead assassins and one prisoner, all most likely S.S. soldiers, and whatever he could find of their possessions.  That done, he picked the tall assassin up, heaved his body over his shoulder, tossed him in the back seat in a heap beside his unconscious confederate, and shut the car door. 

He leaned over to talk to Finch through his opened window.  “Sorry, but you’re going to have to miss your meeting.  I have to find their car, search it, collect the other guy’s body too, and take them all back to MI6.”

Finch just nodded.  “I understand.  Can you ask the SAS to radio a message to Churchill’s office to let them know that I won't be attending?”

“Sure.”  John turned on his SAS radio again to relay the message.  When he was done, he got back in the car and tried starting the Rolls, hoping he hadn't damaged it too badly when he'd driven it into the tree.  Luckily, though it sputtered a bit at first, it started up again. 

John put it into reverse, and drove slowly back in the direction the Germans had come from.  It shouldn’t be difficult to backtrack to the Daimler; he could just follow the tracks of its passage through the trees…

He glanced over at Finch, and found he was still watching him with that same grave intensity he’d had earlier, when he’d offered to reward Mars for saving him.

“I meant what I said, Sergeant,” Harold said quietly.  “I owe you a great deal.  So if you ever need anything –”

Mars shot him a fond smile, and reached out to pat his arm.  “Thanks.  I’ll let you know, Harold.”

 

*

Mars had never really thought much about Harold’s offer again.  For one thing, he had no intention of taking him up on it.  Harold’s continued existence was all the reward he needed.  For another, a few days later, his whole life changed.  He and Pallard were suddenly released from Finch’s protection detail and reassigned.  Mars didn’t know what Pallard’s new orders were, but he’d been ordered to report back to his base near London, to finish his SAS training.   

He'd wondered if saving Finch had earned him that, or if Finch had had something to do with his reassignment.  He hadn't forgotten Finch's promise, that day in the woods.  He knew Harold hadn't either.  John had often spoken to him of his SAS training.  Knowing that he hoped to go back to it, maybe Harold had somehow arranged it.

He'd probably never know if Finch was responsible for his reassignment, but it didn't matter.  Regardless of how it'd happened, Mars felt a real sense of satisfaction, even excitement about it that wasn’t merely selfish.  He knew what his transfer meant.  MI6 must've finished interrogating the assassin he'd turned over to them, and decided that the threat to Finch was over.  No matter how well he’d handled saving Harold that day, MI6 and the OSS would never have allowed him to leave Finch unguarded otherwise. 

He was really glad that Harold was safe now, and that when his own SAS training was done, he'd get sent back into action.  His mission would be to parachute in behind enemy lines in North Africa, then use cover identities and aid locals in resisting, to blow up German airfields and munitions depots, spy on German munitions manufacturing and military operations, seduce and/or assassinate Germans if necessary, and just generally fuck the Nazi bastards over however possible.  It would all be incredibly dangerous, but John knew he'd be good at it, too.

Part of him -- the part that loved the high octane thrill of combat -- couldn’t wait.  Now that Nazis had actually come to England in a brazen attempt to kill Finch, he felt doubly motivated to get back into the fight.  But he also felt guilty, because he’d have to leave Jessica behind again. 

Sometimes he wondered if he wasn't a bit crazy, to do that again.  It'd been hard enough to leave her the first time he'd shipped out to North Africa.  And after the horrors he’d seen there, the blood and carnage, the screams and death, heat and flies, boredom and misery, coming back to her had seemed like heaven.  The dirt and heat of desert combat had made him forget what love and pleasure felt like, until he was back in her arms.  And the only reason he'd been sent home was because he'd been badly wounded.  What if this time, he got killed?  Of course Jess would get his pension, but she'd be alone; and what if the Germans invaded England?  How could he even think of giving Jessica up again, of going away and leaving her unprotected?

He'd thought about it a lot, lately.  He just didn't see that he had any choice but to go.  He was a soldier, and a damn good one.  Before he'd taken this assignment, he'd been training to be a commando, the toughest training the military had, and he'd excelled at it.  Given his abilities, how could he stay here and not use them, when the Nazis were attacking his beloved adopted country?  How could he not fight, when the Germans were bombing the hell out of London, where his wife and friends lived?  Given all that, how could he not do his part to defend England, to keep his wife and Finch and everyone he cared about safe?  If people in England didn't do their utmost, they'd end up being enslaved or killed like the rest of Europe had been.

Besides...  Though he'd never spoken of it to anyone, John was just good at violence.  He didn't enjoy killing, but the struggle of combat, especially hand-to-hand fighting, gave him a dark kind of thrill.  He was incredibly good at it, too:  fluid, savage and swift.  Most men found it terrifying, and though John had had moments like that in the desert, his fear had always been for his men, not himself.  He just loved fighting; especially when he was protecting someone he cared about.  It was a paradox, but he never felt as alive as when he was facing death that way.

John threw his heart and soul into it, and his last few weeks of SAS training slipped by in what seemed like a blink.

 

 ** _Feb. 9, 1943_**  

One cold morning in early February, with snow half a foot deep still lingering everywhere on the SAS base near London, Sgt. Mars' C.O. took him aside.  “I'm giving you an assignment, Sergeant,” Major Temms said quietly.  “I need a few things I can't get on base.  Take this list to London and get them for me.”  Temms handed John the necessary pounds to pay for them, along with his list.

“Yes sir,” Mars said automatically.  Though they were still confined to base, his unit had just passed their last bit of SAS training the day before, so they had a bit of liberty.  Mars figured something was up with the Major’s supply run order, though.  It was just unusual, to be assigned such scutwork.  Temms was a tough, conscientious officer who'd been his demolitions instructor.  John had taken to blowing things up with gusto, and passed his class with flying colors.  He'd worked hard at everything, and gotten the highest marks in his whole battalion.  So he doubted he'd been given the task as punishment.  Temms liked him; besides, Mars knew the older man wasn't the type to use an enlisted man to run his errands.

“Here's a day pass, Sgt.” the Major added, handing one to Mars as he spoke. 

“Thank you, sir.”  John brightened a little at that.  Except for training exercises in the nearby woods, his unit had been confined to base for six weeks.  It would be nice to get to London for a bit.  Maybe he could even swing by Charing Cross and see Jess--

“You’ll need the time to get everything,” Temms added.

John glanced down at Temms’ list.  It was a full page long, and he’d have to go to lots of different places to fill it -- so he wouldn't have time to see Jessica.  His heart fell, but with military discipline, he kept his disappointment from showing. “Yessir.”

He saluted Temms and turned to leave.  Then Temms called, “Sergeant?”

Mars swung round again.  “Yes sir?”

“On second thought,” Temms smiled slightly, “I probably really only need the cigarettes.  You can forget the rest.”

Mars suddenly understood what was going on.  Temms could’ve picked cigarettes up on the base, if he’d wanted to.  The Major was actually giving him a day’s leave secretly, in a way that no one higher up could question, even if a superior officer happened to stop him and look at his list.  The list would also explain his absence to all the other guys in his unit, who might be curious otherwise. 

Pretty clever, he thought.

John felt a surge of excitement.  It would only take him five minutes to pick up cigarettes, so he’d have a whole damn day free to do what he wanted!  He could do more than just see Jess at work, he could spend the night with her!  This wasn’t punishment at all.  It was a gift, one soldier to another. 

He grinned, and snapped an even crisper salute.  “Sir, yes _sir_!”

Temms lowered his voice a bit.  “I don’t want to see you back here with them until 0400 hours tomorrow, is that clear?” he murmured, still smiling.

“Yes _sir_!”  Mars snapped a crisp salute.

But just as John was about to turn away again, eager to get off base and see his wife, the Major sobered.  “One last thing.  Make damn sure you’re back here by 0400, soldier.  You do NOT want to be even one minute late.  Do you understand me?”

Temm’s eyes bored into his, and there was something dark in them now.  Mars understood instantly that something was going to happen tomorrow morning.  Something big.  0400, he thought, confused at Temms’ sudden change of mood.  That’s before dawn, what could –

 _We must be flying out tomorrow morning!_    Rumors had been tossed around for the past two weeks, but none of them had known for sure when they'd be going to North Africa.  Now he did.  So this was far more than just the bit of leave he'd thought it was.  Temms was giving him a last chance to get his affairs in order and say goodbye to his loved ones, before the balloon went up.

Excitement and dread rose up in John's throat.  Excitement that he’d finally be able to put all his hard training to use against the enemy.  Dread, because leaving meant leaving Jess.  He'd have to say goodbye to her tonight.

He put his hands behind his back, stood very straight, and looked his C.O. straight in the eye.  “Yes _sir!_ ” he replied, saluting crisply.  “Thank you, sir.  I’ll be back on time.”

Temms nodded a bit sadly.  “I know.  Carry on, Sergeant.”

Sgt. Mars nodded once, then headed straight for the motor pool.  He was probably the only soldier in his whole battalion lucky enough to get to go home to say goodbye to his wife, before they flew out.  After six weeks apart, he was so eager to see her that he had to force himself not to break into a run; but he didn't.  Because if anyone stopped him to check his orders, running would give the game away.  No soldier would be so eager to do scutwork for an officer, that he’d run to do it. 

But John was really going home to Jess, so he wanted to run his _legs_ off.

*

Twenty minutes later John was in London, using most of his recent pay to buy a new suit, and a blue shirt that matched his eyes.  Jess loved him in blue, and this might be the last time he saw her for months, or even years.  (He didn’t let himself think, _if ever_.  No point to that.)  He was just bloody well going to look his best for her.

He picked up the Major’s cigarettes next, and meant to drive straight to Camden after that.  But no -- Jess would still be at work.  He’d been so eager to get home, he’d forgotten that it would be hours before her shift at the hospital ended.  He debated calling her, to see if she could get off of work early. 

Then he realized, there was someone else he should see before he left.  He looked at his watch.  He decided to call Jess and ask her to meet him at home at about 1:00.  That would give him time to drive to Bletchley Park, to see Harold Finch too.  And if Jess couldn’t get off early, then after saying goodbye to Finch, he’d go to Charing Cross Hospital to wait for her.

His planning done, he called Jess, then headed for Bletchley.  He got lucky and found Harold at his desk, head down over his usual pile of paperwork, so busy writing that he didn't even notice him at first.  The sight was so familiar that John smiled and just watched him fondly for a minute.  He noticed that Finch had had the blackboard they'd been using for his coding lessons taken away.  He felt a bit disappointed, until he saw that Finch had kept his original chalkboard in his back office.  Maybe one was all he really needed, and the second board had been put there entirely for John’s benefit.  Thinking of it that way made him feel better. 

He smelled coffee, saw the nearly empty cup on Finch’s desk, and thought he must be tired and using it to stay awake.  He looked a bit pale, and thinner than when John had last seen him.  He wondered if Finch had been working himself into the ground lately, since he'd been gone.  He hoped not.

Still it felt surprisingly good, standing in his former place at Finch’s office door again.  For a second, he wished he could return to being his bodyguard so he could look after Harold, make sure he ate now and then.  But also just because he missed him, and because it would've let him stay with Jess, too.

But Finch had his duty to do, and Mars had his.  He just needed to say goodbye to the friend who’d taught him so much first, before the war took him away again, for months or even years.

Finally, Mars knocked lightly on the opened door.  “Hey, Mr. Finch,” he smiled.

When he lifted his head and saw him, Harold's tired face brightened instantly.  His eyes widening in surprise, he rose as quickly as he could, and came around his desk to greet John.  “Sergeant Mars!  It's good to see you.”  Harold fairly beamed as they shook hands.

John smiled back, flattered by the way Finch's tired, pale face had lit up when he saw him, and doubly glad that he'd decided to come.  He couldn’t tell anyone that he was flying to North Africa in the morning.  He wasn’t supposed to know his departure date himself.  But he was very glad he'd gotten the chance to say goodbye to Harold first.

“Thanks.  It’s good to see you, too.  How’ve you been, sir?”

“Fine.  And you know you don’t need to call me 'sir',” Finch chided fondly, smiling a little. 

Mars smiled.  Harold had told him that so many times, it'd become their private little joke.  He just called Finch “sir” occasionally anyway to tease him, but also out of genuine respect. 

“You're looking well, John.”

“Thank you _sir_ ,” Mars grinned.  “I’ll bet you’re glad to have your privacy back, and your office all to yourself again, right?”

Finch cocked his head a little.  “Strangely enough, no.  It seems -- a bit empty now.  I think I’d rather gotten used to having you about,” he said softly. 

He sounded a bit wistful, and John’s heart gave an odd little twist.  He knew it'd been hard for a private man like Finch to adjust to having bodyguards, so he'd never really considered that Harold might be lonely without him, once he was gone.

“And of course, the women here will never forgive me for your disappearance,” Finch added wryly.  “Half of my department have been weeping since the day you left.  A few have even gone so far as to ask me what I did to drive you away!”

Mars laughed, knowing Finch was exaggerating.  Still, the female clerks and secretaries _had_ turned up to say “Hello” a lot, while he was guarding Finch.  Often enough that he’d taken to flashing his wedding ring at them when they’d turned up smiling with cups of tea and scones for him, while he was on duty at Finch’s door.  John had taken delight in convincing them to leave their offerings on Finch's desk instead.  It hadn't been a hardship, he'd always enjoyed flirting.  He loved women and loved to banter and tease.  But he was taken, and on duty as well.  So he'd kept those conversations short and light, so he didn't neglect Finch or lead anyone on.  Still, it was nice to know that he’d been missed after he left Bletchley Park.

“I told them you’d run off with your one true love:  my Rolls,” Finch added wryly, with one of his sly, barely there smiles.

Mars threw back his head and laughed.  “Oh, I’d never do that.  Not after teaching you to shoot!”

They both laughed at that, and when it wound down, they were still smiling at each other. 

“It's so _good_ to see you, John, truly,” Finch said.

John was touched.  I guess Finch missed me too.  I’m sure gonna miss _him_ when I'm back in Africa, he thought with real regret.  That reminded him of something else connected to his departure.  “There's something I need to ask you, Mr. Finch.  A favor, if that's all right.”

Finch just smiled.  “Of course, John.  Anything.  What do you need?”

John was glad that Finch had dropped his usual formality and used his first name; and for his ready offer, too.  “It's not for me, Harold,” he said quietly.  “It's for my wife, Jessica.”

Finch looked surprised, and even a bit taken aback.  But when John paused, a bit surprised himself, Finch recovered and said quickly, “Certainly.  How can I help?”

“She works at Charing Cross Hospital, like I told you, and… well, I gave her your number and asked her to ring you, if she ever needs any help.  I hope that's all right with you.”  He felt a bit awkward.  Since his imminent departure was classified, he couldn't tell Finch why he was asking for the favor.  Sharp as Finch was, though, John was pretty sure he’d figure it out on his own. 

He’d been right about that.  Finch paled a little, and John knew he'd instantly grasped what he wasn't allowed to say.  That he wanted someone to help his wife if she ever needed it, because he'd been ordered back overseas on an SAS mission.  Harold stared at him silently with widened eyes for a moment, looking more frightened than he had that day those Krauts had tried to kill him. 

“Oh,” was all he finally said, but there was a world of sadness in that little sound.  His eyes held John's for a long moment, and though Harold didn't say a word, his fear seemed to fill the silence between them.  Then he looked away and cleared his throat.  When he looked back at John, his eyes were calmer and his voice firmer.  “I see.  Of course I don’t mind, John.  Please tell her to contact me any time, day or night.  I'll be glad to help her, in any way I can. You have my word on it.”

“Thanks, Harold.  That means a lot to me.”

John felt a wave of relief at Harold's typically generous promise.  All his SAS buddies had either gone to Africa already or were going there soon, so he couldn't ask them to help Jess.  Though he thought well of some of his SAS instructors, they were military too, and given the situation, they might be sent overseas as well, while he was gone.  He couldn’t count on them being in England to help her.  Besides, he didn’t know them well enough to ask them to look out for Jess in his absence.  She was his heart, the most precious thing in his life, and he didn't trust anyone with her safety but Finch. 

They talked for a few minutes more.  Mars would've liked to stay longer, but he'd come by unannounced, and he knew just how busy Finch always was.  He also had Jess to get home to.  He'd been away for weeks, and fairly ached to see her and make love with her, to say goodbye before he flew off to North Africa in the morning.  Finally, he said reluctantly, “Well, I'd better go.  It was really good seeing you again, Mr. Finch.”

“It was wonderful to see you too, Sergeant Mars.  Thank you for coming, and good luck to you, my friend.”

Harold looked so solemn, John smiled to cheer him up.  “Thanks.  'Bye then, Harold.  Don't work too hard.  Maybe you’ll find someone else to give coding lessons to now,” he teased. 

Finch made an effort to smile back, but didn't succeed very well.  He still looked pale and unhappy.  “I rather doubt that, John.” 

Mars felt a pang of regret, knowing his leaving was hurting Finch too, as well as Jessica.  But he didn't know what to say, how to make it easier for them.  It was terribly hard for him too, leaving them behind.  “You take care, Harold.  I guess I'll see you later.”  He turned to go, but to his surprise, Finch said, “Wait!  Please.” 

When he turned back, Harold reached for his hand, shaking it with a tad more force than was strictly necessary.  “Take care of yourself, John,” he said quietly.  “Try not to take too many insane risks, please.”

That startled another laugh out of John.  “You know me too well.”

But Finch didn't laugh; and he didn't end their handshake either, as John expected.  Swallowing hard, Harold stared down at their clasped hands as if he couldn't quite believe what he was doing; or like he couldn’t quite bear to let go.   

John peered down at him in surprise.  It was the first time he'd ever seen Finch at a loss for words -- or so demonstrative, either.  But Harold’s eyes were suspiciously bright, and John could feel his hand trembling, too.  Finch wasn't usually sentimental, so his reaction caught him off guard. 

Aww, Harold.  Jesus, you’re _crying_ , he realized, both touched and saddened by it.  He'd only ever seen him tear up once before, when remembering Mr. Ingram.  A flash of insight came to him.

 _Harold seems to have lots of colleagues and acquaintances, but I don't think he's got many close friends left.._..  _First he lost Ingram, and now I'm going away, too._

Until that instant, John had never quite realized just how much he'd evidently come to mean to Finch -- and vice versa.  A deep, fierce affection surged through him, mingled with regret at having to leave his friend and teacher.  He was going to worry about Harold too, while he was gone. 

He suddenly wished he could give him something in return for everything Harold had taught him.  But what could a poor soldier like him give a billionaire?  Especially when he was just about to leave England on a mission so secret, they couldn't even mention it.

Suddenly, Finch's grip on his hand gave him an idea.  There was one thing he could do.  It was little enough in return for all that Finch had done for him, but John hoped it would at least make Harold feel a bit better.  He stepped forward impulsively and hugged Harold gently.  Doing his best to talk around the elephant in the room, he said, “Okay.  I'll take a few less risks, Harold.  I promise.” 

Finch was so reserved, Mars wasn’t sure he’d appreciate his impulsive gesture.  He half expected Harold might pull away from him instantly, or stiffen up; but he didn’t.  On the contrary -- he slipped his arms around John and held him tightly in return, patting his back. 

“You are... a most exceptional young man, in many ways,” he said shakily against John's shoulder.  “I should very much hate --” _to lose you._   Finch choked back the words, but his desperate embrace and the quiver in his voice spoke them anyway.  “Remember what I taught you, John.  _Please_ ,” he said urgently.

John could hardly believe that Harold was doing this, hugging him so tightly, when he didn’t usually even touch people very much.  It was just more evidence of how much Finch cared for him.

 _How much Harold cared_ …

Oh my God.

John had an epiphany then.  Memories of months of Finch's daily coding lessons flashed through his mind, and he realized that Finch had a secret of his own that he couldn't say out loud.  He suddenly understood what Harold had really been doing for months now.  The sophisticated codes and ciphers he'd taught John hadn't just been kindness, or a way to alleviate the boredom of guard duty, or even a way to share a subject Harold loved, like John had thought.  They'd been all that, but far more, too. 

Harold had known that John would eventually return to the SAS, and he'd been _augmenting his training._   All those brain-teasing lessons on his blackboard and those late nights at his estate, working Finch's encoded messages out on paper...  Harold hadn't just been indulging John's interest in codes or getting to know him better, like John had imagined.  He'd been sharpening his mind, improving his memory and perceptiveness, as well as his skill at codes and ciphers -- all critical tools for a spy.  Harold had been honing skills that he hoped would help to save John's life, when he went back to Africa as a covert operative.

Somehow, Harold’s embrace made it all so clear to him.  Finch must've always known that he would lose him, that he'd go back to war in the end -- yet he'd given him a priceless gift anyway.  He'd done his best to save him, when he went.  He'd done it all quietly, too, probably hoping that John would never guess at his plan, or his motive for it; and he almost hadn't.  But as the light finally dawned in his mind about the full extent of Harold's kindness, John didn't need to ask _why_ Finch had done all that for him.  He knew.

  John was so touched, so amazed that he felt tears spring to his own eyes.  He'd always liked Finch, and realized that he was a genius with a good heart, but _this_ \-- knowing that Harold _loved_ him, maybe even thought of him as his closest friend, now that Nathan Ingram was gone -- it moved him deeply.  He had no idea what to say, how to thank Finch for it.  He'd saved him once, but Harold had secretly been busy saving him too, almost from the moment they'd met.

Harold felt small and slight in his arms, like the bird he was named for.  Though John knew he was really surprisingly tough and frighteningly intelligent, his friend's small stature still made him feel protective.  So he held Harold gently, trying to let him know that he was precious to him.  Harold didn't seem to be in any hurry to let go of him, so John held on, too.

He wanted to say so many things to Finch, but military secrecy forbade it.  Even if he'd been free to speak, John didn’t think he could summon all the words to describe what their friendship meant to him.  How unique Harold was, and how incredible.  How glad he was that he'd been assigned to guard him, and that he'd managed to save him.  Even if he got killed in Africa, at least he'd die knowing he'd protected one of England's finest minds, one of its best men, and one of his best friends.  That meant a lot to him, more than Harold would ever know.

But men didn't say things like that.  No matter what their friends had done for them, or how deeply they felt it, they didn't talk about love.  The lump that filled John's throat when Finch returned his hug so fervently made speech impossible for a minute anyway. 

Finally, when he recovered enough to speak again, John rasped, “Thanks for everything you taught me, Harold.  I'll remember it all, I promise.  And you... Try to remember to eat something once in a while, will you?  And don’t work so hard,” he added, knowing that was about as likely as him not taking risks.

Harold nodded, his eyes still reddened with unshed tears as he finally, reluctantly let John go.  “All right.  I'll try.”  Harold bravely tried to smile. “Goodbye, Sergeant John Mars,” he said softly.  “And the best of luck, always.”

Mars smiled back.  “G'bye, Mr. Harold Finch.  _Sir_.”  He gave Finch one last fond smile, saluted him with genuine respect, then turned and headed down the hallway towards the front entrance to the building.  But he didn’t like leaving Finch when he looked so sad, so he turned back one last time.  “'Bye for now.  But I’ll see you again, sir,” he smiled, trying to show Harold how much he hoped to.

“I’d like that.  Please, look me up when you -- I mean, whenever you can.  Anytime.”

“Okay, I'll do that.  Let's have a drink when we finally beat the bastards, Harold,” he grinned.

Finch smiled at that, though his eyes were still sad.  “Yes.  I'll drink to that, John.”

“Right then.  See you again sometime, Harold.”

“Yes.  I'll see you again, John.”

Mars smiled, and flashed a two-fingered “v for victory” sign at Finch before walking away.  He guessed he’d handled their goodbye all right, because at least when Finch waved back at him, he'd looked a little less sad.

 

*

 

But John Mars’ toughest goodbye was still to come. 

When he kissed Jessica goodbye long before dawn the next morning, it was even harder than it'd been the last time he'd shipped out.  They’d made love for most of the afternoon and evening, but John still felt like he’d hardly started kissing her, touching her, when it was time to go.  When he finally got up out of bed, he felt like his heart was being ripped right out of his chest, especially when he saw how hard Jess was trying not to cry.

 _She knows_ , he realized.  He hadn’t told her a thing, but Jess was very smart, and he’d showed up suddenly, after calling to tell her he’d passed all his SAS courses…  She’d put two and two together, and guessed that he was being sent back to war again.

He got dressed, then took her in his arms tenderly.  Jessica had wrapped her robe over her lacy nightie, to ward off the early morning chill.  She wrapped her arms around him with all her strength, holding John so tightly that he could feel her heart beating wildly against him through her thin robe.  He closed his eyes against the pain of their impending goodbye.  Rocking her slightly in his arms, he whispered, “I Iove you so much, sweetheart.  So much...” 

“I promised myself I'd be strong for you, that I wouldn’t cry,” she said into his shoulder, but her voice trembled.

He shook his head.  He wasn’t allowed to say that he was going, but he could talk around it.  “To Hell with all that British stiff upper lip crap, Jess.  You married a Yank, remember?” he said, teasing her a little.  “So you cry if you want to.”  She had a right to, he knew.  It wasn’t the first time he’d left her to go off and fight; and his job this time would be far more dangerous, his odds of coming back even lower.  And he never wanted her to pretend with him about anything -- especially not this.

“Be careful, John,” she whispered, letting her tears fall then, as she kissed his cheek, his neck.  “My sweetheart, my lovely Johnny...”

Her tears were cold on his neck, but he didn’t care.  He kissed her back, barely able to hold back his own grief.  “You too, honey.  And if you get lonely, go out with your friends.  Have fun.  Go dancing.  Don't stay home because of me.”  He wanted to say the right thing, something to ease her pain, but he was hampered by the need to keep his mouth shut about classified information at the same time.  So he babbled, saying stupid things, so upset he could hardly think. 

 _Shut up!_ he told himself fiercely.  _You’ll just make it worse_.

“All right.  But I can take care of myself, John.  You know that.”  She smiled fondly at him through eyes that shone with tears.

Unbelievably, Jess was trying to reassure _him_.  “I do.  Sure I do, honey.”  He'd married a strong, smart, capable woman; but that didn't stop him from worrying.  John took her face in his hands gently.  “But just in case...  If you have any money problems, or anything bad happens that you're not sure how to handle...  You remember what I said and ring Mr. Finch, okay?”

Jessica's brow wrinkled slightly.  “Who --?”

“Mr. Harold Finch,” he repeated patiently, knowing how upset she was.  “You remember, I wrote his name and number on a piece of paper and left it in the kitchen for you.”  Now that he wasn't guarding Finch anymore, it was okay to tell Jessica a bit about him, as long as he didn't mention his earlier assignment as his bodyguard.

“Oh yes.  Sorry, I remember,” she nodded, wiping away a tear.

“He's a friend, a really good one.  He's a genius, Jess, and he lives in Buckinghamshire, near Bletchley Park.  He's a good man, and I trust him.  If you get in any trouble…”  _While I’m gone_ , he carefully didn’t say, “You ring him, all right?  _Promise me_ , sweetheart.”

“All right, John.  Of course I will.”  She kissed him, to seal her promise.

John had given careful thought to Jessica’s protection, while he was away fighting.  He and Jessica didn't have a lot of money, and both of their parents had passed away.  The first time he’d left to fight in Africa, her uncle had offered to look out for Jess in his absence, but he’d died a few months ago, and neither of them had any other relatives.  Jessica had girlfriends at the hospital, but their husbands or lovers were all away fighting, too.  Finch was the best person for Jess to turn to if something dire happened.  He was smart, wealthy and influential, and John knew he’d stay in England until the war was over.  Finch was too important and too dedicated to leave, and too injured to ever volunteer for active service, either. 

John also knew that Harold was a man of integrity.  He’d keep his promise and look out for Jess, if anything bad happened while he was gone.  It was the only thing that made him feel a bit better about leaving her behind again.

Jessica cupped the back of his neck in one slender hand.  Curling her fingers around it tenderly, as if he were the most precious thing in the world, she pressed her cheek to his.  “But don't worry about me, John.  Just come back to me, love.  _Please come back_ ,” she breathed, holding him tightly.

He wanted to promise her at least that much, wished desperately that he could.  But he knew better.  If he got killed, he didn’t want a broken promise to be her last memory of him. 

“If I can,” he said carefully at last, “you know I will.  I love you _so much_ , Jess.  More than anything else in this world,'' he whispered, his voice hoarse and cracking with grief.  _I’m so sorry I have to leave you again_ , he thought sadly.  _But I'm going for you, to help keep you safe_.  “I'll do everything I can to come back to you.  I promise.  Be strong for me, okay?”

“I will.  And John – you wait for me, all right?  Don’t – don't find someone else, over there.”

The idea that Jessica could think, even for a second, that someone else could ever replace her made his heart ache, like someone had squeezed it with a fist.  “There's never been anyone else, Jessica; and there won’t be, I swear,” he vowed.

She smiled a little, her tears damp and cool against his throat.  “Ask me to wait for you, John,” she whispered, fond and tender despite her pain.  “Just say the words, and I will.” 

John closed his eyes, love piercing his heart so he could hardly speak.  She was repeating what he’d said to her long ago, before he’d left for Africa the first time -- he’d asked her to wait for him then.  It touched him that she remembered it.  “Wait for me.  Please, sweetheart,” he whispered again, his own eyes filled with tears.

He knew she would.  He just wanted to hear it, so he could take the memory out and relive it later, when things got bad.

“I'll wait, John. I promise,” she said softly, kissing his cheek. 

Then words failed them and they just held on tightly to each other, clinging like frightened children, trying not to cry though their tears spilled over anyway. 

John touched Jessica's soft, shining blonde hair.  He kissed it and tried to memorize every detail of this last hug, as soldiers do.  The scent of her perfume, the warmth of her sweet, slender body pressed so tightly to his, the love in her fierce embrace and in her brown eyes.  His beautiful, strong, sweet golden girl.  There was nothing in the world he loved more than her, more than being with her like this, breathing her breath, feeling her heart beating against his.  He wondered how the hell he was going to stand being parted from her again.  Yet how could he do anything else, give anything less than his all, when the stakes were so high?  If he didn’t go back to fight, how could he call himself a man?  How could he live with himself, if he didn’t do his utmost to protect her and their home? 

And Harold too.  He hadn’t saved Harold Finch, friend, teacher and scientist extraordinaire, just to have the Nazis invade and kill him after all.  Finch was critical to the Allied fight, and Jessica saved lives at her hospital…  They were both important, to him and to the war effort.  The guys in his SAS unit were too.  He couldn't let them down, or his adopted country either.  He had to do whatever he could to fight the Nazis, to protect them all…

“I'm sorry,” he said thickly at last.  “I have to report back to the base now, love,” he said shakily.  “I have to go...”  Still it was hard, so hard to let go of Jessica.  His whole body ached as he rose to put on his jacket.

“I know.  Stay safe, love.”  Jessica stood up too, then took his face in her hands and gently, sweetly kissed both of his eyes, his cheeks, and his mouth.  John stood reverently still for it, feeling her tender kisses like a blessing, a loving benediction meant to keep him safe.  Another lovely thing about her to memorize, a beautiful moment to take with him into the dark places he knew lay ahead.

She smiled at him sweetly, despite the tears swimming in her brown eyes and shining on her cheeks.  “I’ll wait for you, love.  As long as it takes,” she said again, softly and clearly.  Then she held him tightly one last time, and whispered in his ear.  “I love you, John Mars.  Wherever you go, don’t you ever forget that.”

“I never will,” he whispered back hoarsely.  “Never, Jess.  I promise.”

He had to let go of her then, finally, or he never would have.  But as he drove away into the cold darkness before dawn, past the piles of debris in the streets from bombed, collapsed buildings on his way back to base, he felt like the loneliest man in England already.

 

*

 

_November 1943, Gestapo Field Station, Casablanca, North Africa_

 

Despite his battered face and dire situation, Reese was still tempted to make jokes; but he restrained himself.  Not just because it might earn him extra punishment, but because his German captors just wouldn’t get them.  The Gestapo were humorless bastards, and he hated it when his jokes went unappreciated.  John had yet to meet a Nazi with a good sense of humor.  It was just one of the many things he detested about them.

“No.  Like I said, I’m just an auto factory worker,” he repeated instead, through bloodied lips.

The shorter German shook his head.  “I don’t believe you!”

John knew why.  The Germans would never admit it, but he’d just tossed six of their men around in the streets outside, in a two-hour long, desperate escape attempt.  Though they were all armed and John had emptied his gun early on, he'd still taken most of them down.  A few were dead, and four of the other Gestapo who’d pursued him were probably still lying in back alleys moaning over broken skulls and kneecaps.  The problem was, your average factory worker didn’t have that kind of skill at hand-to-hand combat.  Hell, your average _soldier_ didn’t have John’s skill at that.  Unfortunately, now that the Germans had seen how good he was at ass-kicking, it was much harder for John to maintain his cover.

The shorter German nodded at the taller one.  John steeled himself, knowing what was coming.

He'd already secretly labeled the Gestapo men “Fritz” and “Short, Ugly Fritz” in his head, partly for the fun of it, and partly to distract himself a bit.  Judging by the nod he’d just seen the Gestapo thugs exchange, amusement was about to be in short supply for him.  John knew the look of this small, dank room, and knew what was about to happen here. 

Unfortunately, for the moment, he was trapped.  These two officers weren’t stupid.  They were both armed, and one of them stayed out of range and kept his gun on him at all times, while the other interrogated him.  John knew if he so much as twitched a finger, the one watching would put a bullet in his head.  Normally, he'd've been fast enough to take them both out anyway -- but not right now.  They'd just chased him for several hours, through narrow alleys and over rooftops; and he'd lost some blood since he'd been shot, too.  He was too worn out to take them both down now without getting shot again.

But the Germans were just getting started.  They quit slapping him around and started punching him in the face instead.  John did his best to act terrified, though he really longed to punch them back even harder.  He was just about certain now that his cover had been blown even before he’d been chased and forced to fight in the nearby streets; and that his own partner had been behind it, the one who'd betrayed him.  It made him feel both sick and furious. 

Oh yeah, John thought darkly.  If I ever get out of here, I'm gonna have a few questions for Jerry Stills, that rat _bastard_.

But right now, he had bigger problems:  like just how he was going to get out of this alive.  He’d already been shot in his left arm (probably by Jerry) during his escape attempt, and now he was in the hands of the Gestapo.  Luckily, the bullet had gone cleanly through his tricep without lodging in a muscle or shattering a bone, but the wound had gotten dirty during his attempted escape, and it was still bleeding; and his interrogation was just beginning.

John knew just how brutal it was going to get.  As soon as they’d pushed him into the small room, he’d noticed the table at one side whose surface was covered with matches, thumbscrews, hammers and cattle prods.  They’d wanted him to see it, of course -- to be terrified by it.

What they didn’t know was that John was already familiar with those things.  He'd used them on a few Germans he’d needed information from, before he'd killed them.  So he’d done his best to act petrified when he saw them, but he was really only worried about the hammers and thumbscrews because he'd need to use his hands to escape.

The Germans stripped him with their usual, brutal efficiency, then shoved him to the floor.  One of them stepped on John’s wounded arm, grinding down on it with his boot mercilessly.  But Mars gritted his teeth and didn’t make a sound.  _I’m not giving these fuckers anything_ , he thought stubbornly. 

Unfortunately, the Gestapo were just warming up.  While he was still breathless from the searing pain in his arm, Fritz cuffed his hands roughly, making the cuffs too tight to add to his pain.  Then he tied a rope tightly around John’s ankles and forced him to lie face down on the floor.  Fritz then pulled John’s hands up and shoved a long, thin metal rod under the cuffs’ chain and under the rope around his ankles.  Each thug took one end of the rod and with a grunt they lifted him, laying each end of it over a table so that John hung, naked and helpless between them.

“Talk!” Short, Ugly Fritz demanded, pulling his head back by the hair until John’s neck ached from the strain. 

“Please, don’t!” John hated pleading with these Gestapo fuckers for anything, even his own life, but more than just his life was at stake here.  Everyone who’d helped him would be at risk if he cracked and admitted that he was a British spy.  So for now, he had to keep acting the part of a frightened, bewildered innocent.  “I told you, I just work at a plant making car parts.  I'm not a spy.  I don’t know anything about that!”

“Liar!” the German snorted.  He let go of John’s hair and John shut his eyes, letting his head hang, relieved as the vicious strain on his neck eased.  But the respite didn’t last long. 

Fritz edged out of sight for a second, and when he came back into John’s view, he was carrying a whip.  John tried to ready himself for a new onslaught of pain as Fritz tapped the whip against his leg.

“Talk!” he repeated.  “Admit that you are a spy!”

Asshole, John thought.  He spat blood onto the floor by way of reply.

The whipping began, and it was as merciless as John had known it would be.  He went elsewhere in his head as best he could.  He’d always been good at that.  As the whip came down again and again, cutting into his back mercilessly, he concentrated on Jessica’s smile, imagined the feel of her in his arms, the softness of her hair, the scent of her perfume, the light in her eyes when she smiled.  He imagined, in breathtaking detail, the last time they'd danced together to her favorite song. 

 _There were angels dining at the Ritz, It was such a romantic affair_...

He held onto the memory so tightly that the pain faded into the background.

Finally, Fritz kicked him in the gut, and the difference in the pain made John gasp, forcing him brutally back to reality.  He fought for air, heaving uselessly against his bonds. 

“Ha!  Felt that, did you, you stubborn bastard?” his torturer exulted.

“Please, stop,” John repeated dully.  “I don't know anything.”

Then he went back to imagining Jess.  The way she’d kissed him when he left.  His eyes, his cheeks, his mouth, so tenderly…  It helped blot out his agony, which grew when the Germans went back to working him over.

He thought of Harold Finch, too.  Tried to replay some of their chess games in his head, move by move.  He remembered Harold humming happily along to a record of an Italian tenor singing Mozart's “La Donna y Mobile” one night, while John sacrificed his knight in an attempt to draw out Harold's queen.  He recalled how good he used to feel when he managed to make Harold smile, and the fond way Harold had hugged him when they parted...

An eternity of pain later, he looked hazily down into the growing pool of blood on the floor beneath him.  Some from his arm, but most of it was from the lashes on his back.  That’s gonna scar for sure, he thought ruefully. 

But John still hadn’t talked.  Short, Ugly Fritz seemed to be getting frustrated, so he pulled out a knife.  “Talk!” he ordered again. He held his knife close to John’s face, so he could see how sharp and shiny it was.  “Admit that you’re a spy!  Tell us who sent you and where your codebook is, and this pain can stop.”

“I’m not… a spy,” Mars repeated.  “I don’t… know anything.”  He tried to sound submissive, but he was really thinking that the goon had a pretty good knife, and if he got the chance, he'd take it -- and use it on him. 

His eyes must’ve betrayed some of the defiance he felt, because Fritz suddenly kicked him hard in the abdomen again.  And while John was still gasping for breath, the next round of torture began.  The knife came down on his wounded arm…

 

*

John never knew how much later it was when he was finally tossed, still naked but no longer handcuffed, onto the cold concrete floor of a cell.  The Germans threw him in backwards so that when he hit the floor, his lacerated back took the brunt of the impact.  The burst of agony that caused was so overwhelming, he passed out.

Sometime later, John surfaced slowly, pain rolling over him in unrelenting waves.  He bit back a groan and just laid there for a time, drifting in and out of consciousness, not really sure where he was, half hoping his agony was only a dream.  But the floor was ice cold, and his own shivering eventually woke him up.  Oh _fuck_ , but he hurt...

His head swam, but he finally remembered where he was, and what'd happened.  He felt a wave of fear.  _I'm gonna die here_....

He forced it back, as he'd been trained to do.  _Fear is counter-productive_ , he chanted to himself. _Fear will get you killed._

Once he'd pushed it back and steadied himself, he assessed his condition.  It’d been hours since he’d eaten or had any water, and he’d lost a lot of blood.  He was freezing and filthy, but his shivering told him he wasn't badly frozen yet, which was good.  His left arm, the one that'd been shot and which the Gestapo had then slashed up, was already swollen and throbbing.  Infected, he thought dully.  He was probably developing a fever, too.

No sense worrying about that, though.  The important thing was, those Gestapo bastards hadn't made him sing.  They didn't have his codebook or his key.  His network was safe, and he'd bought them all time to get away or go into hiding. 

But to keep them safe, he had to plan his escape.  The very idea of that, badly wounded, bloody and stripped naked as he was, might've seemed impossible to most men.  To Sgt. John Mars, it was just a challenge.  The SAS motto was, _Who dares, wins._   That philosophy was more than just a motto to John -- it was like a religion.  Time to start praying, he thought wryly. 

He forced his eyes open so he could examine his cell.  It was cold, dank and featureless.  Cement walls, no windows and only one door, the one he’d just been thrown through like a sack of potatoes.  He didn't have the strength to stand yet, so he rolled his head slowly back and forth, breathing deeply to try to increase his circulation and get blood to his stiffened muscles.

Ignoring his dizziness, he looked around.  His cell door looked to be solid steel, with no way of opening it from the inside.  The only opening in it was a little slot in its upper half, less than a foot high, which was currently closed.  Since it was a bit high to pass food through, John figured it was meant just for observation, so the guards could look in on their captives.  He must be in a temporary holding cell for torture and interrogation victims, rather than long-term prisoners.  He wasn’t sure what good that little slot could do him, though.  Since it was only about the height of his arm, there'd be no escaping through that.

The Gestapo had held him, he guessed, for at least a day.  By now, he knew word of his arrest would’ve spread throughout Casablanca like wildfire.  Plenty of people had seen the Gestapo chasing him, heard the shots fired by both sides, and seen the Gestapo agents he'd beaten and kneecapped and left lying in the streets.  Everyone would be talking about it.  So everyone in his spy network, everyone who’d been helping him gather information about German bases and troop movements, and the local resistance fighters who'd been helping him blow up German munitions plants, trains and airfields would either be hurrying to get out of town, or going into hiding and praying that he wouldn’t break and give them up under torture.

John had no intention of breaking.  He’d find a way to kill himself if necessary, or goad the Gestapo into doing it, if it came to that.

But he hadn’t given up hope yet.  He’d been unconscious by the time his torture session ended, but at least they hadn't mangled his hands yet.  That was one thing in his favor.  They'd even uncuffed him, no doubt thinking they'd worked him over well enough that he was in no condition to cause them any more trouble, anyway.  He smiled a little at that.  _The fools._

He’d come to again while the Gestapo goons were carrying him to his cell.  He’d seen the guard outside it, and through slitted eyes, noted which of the keys on his belt unlocked his cell door.  He’d memorized that key, in case his guard came into his cell later on, and he got the chance to steal it. 

The memory gave him an idea.  The guard had been older and heavyset, with graying hair.  John had seen the man’s face when he’d been carried in, naked, filthy and covered with blood, his back laid open from the whip, his arm bloodied and swollen where he’d been shot, then knifed by his interrogators.  The guard hadn’t said a word, but his face had tightened, and John had seen a flicker of something unexpected in his eyes.

Admiration perhaps, that John hadn’t broken and betrayed his friends, even under torture?  Or compassion for what John had just gone through?  He wasn’t sure.  But if his guard was even a little sympathetic, maybe John could use that to his advantage.  He could play up his injuries, exaggerate his weakness.  Pretend he was close to death.  Work on his guard’s feelings, whatever they were, and get him to open the slot in his cell door.  Then John could grab him, take his gun, either knock him out or shoot him, steal his keys and get out. 

Then again -- the noise of a shot would draw attention, he realized.  Okay, so no shooting.  He revised his plan.  He'd have to either throttle his guard or knock him out.  Either of those would do.  He’d just seize the guard -- and his chance -- when they came.  He was good at improvising.

John's head was spinning a bit from hunger, pain and blood loss.  But he forced himself to think his escape plan – such as it was -- through again.  Even when he disposed of his guard, he wouldn't get far naked and bleeding.  He'd have to steal the guard's uniform, too.  Then he could go just about anywhere.

 _I can do that_.

But that would only be the first of his problems.  There would be cell checks, and guard changes too.  Once they found out he'd escaped, the Gestapo would come after him, and he was badly injured; and knocking out or killing his guard would get him bleeding again.  He might get lucky and have time to steal one of their cars on his way out too, but he doubted it.  He'd probably have to make a run for it on foot, and given his injuries, weakness and probable fever, he might not get far, even in a German uniform. 

So he needed a bolt hole.  Some place to hide that wasn’t far away.  John ran through a list of nearby allies in his head.  Lucienne was the closest, and probably his best bet...  Maybe his only one.  He hated to involve her, but she was really his only chance.

John had been trained to break problems down step by step, and to hone and refine his solutions.  Now that he'd figured out where to go, he went back to step one.  In order to steal his guard’s uniform, he’d have to get him to open his cell door first.  He considered that part of his problem again. 

Maybe water, he thought shrewdly.  There's no way he'd give me any food, but maybe he'd open it to give me some water...  Luckily, his guard was only a bit shorter than him, so his uniform should fit, and John was fluent in German.  So once he had his guard's uniform on, he'd be able to pass himself off as one of them, even to other Germans.  And the idea of escaping the Gestapo by using one of their own uniforms amused him.  _Sieg fucking Heil_ , he laughed silently to himself. 

He didn't have much time, though.  The next time they took him in for a little ‘chat’, those Gestapo goons would use the thumbscrews or hammers on him; and if they crippled his hands, his chances of escaping and surviving afterwards would be gone.  Besides, the longer he was in here, the more chances they'd have to break him; and with every hour that passed, he'd get weaker from hunger, thirst and blood loss.

The guard it is then, he thought wryly.  Fast as I can...

He’d become something of an expert at reading people, and when Fritz and Short, Ugly Fritz had carried his bloodied body past his guard, unlikely though it was, he’d seen a reaction on his guard’s face.  Something far different from the sneers or hatred he was used to seeing on German soldiers’ faces.  It was all he had to work with, at this point.  He just had to figure out his approach.

He forced himself to move, quietly rolling a little so that he was facing the observation slot in the door.  It wasn't very big, but it was partly open, so he could use it to get his guard's attention.  Moving caused fresh trickles of blood to flow from the wounds on his back, though.  He ignored both the crawling sensation and the fiery burst of pain that came with it.

 _Who dares, wins_.

Drawing a deep breath, he started to moan a little, as if he were just waking up.  “Water,” he whispered.  It wasn’t hard to sound pathetic; his throat was so dry it was hard to talk.  He swallowed several times, then tried again, louder.  “Guard, please!  Water!”

After a few minutes, John saw the shadow of the man’s boots appear, beneath the edge of his cell door.  His guard didn’t answer, but he was so close, John knew he had to be listening.

He moaned again, as weakly and piteously as he could.  “Please!  Can I have some _water?_ ”

John Reese watched the observation slot in his cell door.  It hadn’t opened yet, but he was sure it would, soon. 

“Please,” he called again, making sure his voice sounded much weaker than he really was.  “Please, sir.  Water!”

Shivering but gathering his strength, he waited with the patience of a predator for his guard, his enemy, to respond.

Finally the slot in his cell door opened, and his guard stared down at him.

John kept his eyes partly closed and did his best to appear broken and harmless, shivering violently on the cold concrete floor.  Inwardly though, he used his hatred of his captors to ready himself and fuel his strength.  He breathed deeply, knowing he'd have to rise and strike hard and fast, as soon as his guard entered his cell.  “Water!” he moaned again, coughing and sounding as weak and pitiful as he possibly could.  He knew he must look helpless, naked, wounded and covered in blood as he was.

Then he finally heard a key rattle in the lock of his cell door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUBAR is an acronym for "f*d up beyond all repair."


	3. Chapter 3

_October, 1946_

 

Harold Finch awkwardly paced the sunlit edge of a riverside walkway near the Queensborough bridge in Manhattan, trying to work off his impatience.  He’d been waiting for this day for several years.  Now that it was here, the last few minutes of waiting were doubly hard.  He hadn’t felt such excitement in ages.  It’d taken his sources some time to track down the man he was here to meet.  In the end, he’d had to cross the Atlantic to find him. 

He’d never forgotten Sgt. John Mars, the handsome, courageous soldier who’d saved his life when he’d been his bodyguard three years ago.  Finch had had few heroes in his life, but John was one of them.  After the sergeant had single-handedly foiled a German assassination attempt on him, Finch had quietly pulled some strings so Mars could be sent to North Africa with the SAS, as John had wanted.  There, he'd been such a successful covert agent that he'd been promoted to Captain, before things had gone sour.

After Mars left, it'd been impossible to contact him.  Covert operatives like him were simply out of reach of anyone but the SAS, and Finch would never have put John in danger by trying to communicate with him.  But through his contacts in the SAS, he’d gone to considerable lengths to learn what John had been up to in North Africa and its consequences, all the same.  He knew of Mars' extraordinary success as a covert agent, and the tragic events that followed it.

Though the tide of the war began to turn in the Allies’ favor in 1943, Finch had nevertheless foreseen some troubling times ahead.  Even if the Allies won, there would still be certain problems that would require unorthodox solutions.  And when Sgt. Mars had saved him, Finch had made up his mind to devote his own life, once the war finally ended, to solving some of them himself.  He was in a unique position to do so, and his past impelled him to.  He felt that Nate would've approved, as well.  He’d formed his plan of action accordingly; and he’d known immediately who he wanted as his partner. 

His sister Hannah would’ve approved of that choice, Harold thought, smiling sadly to himself.  She’d’ve liked John, and loved the fact that his last name was Mars, the name of the ancient Roman god of war… 

But Finch’s reasons for choosing Mars for the project he was about to begin were hardly fanciful or sentimental.  He would need a partner with the lethal kind of skills John Mars had learned in the military.  though the larger world war was now over, what Finch had planned would certainly be as dangerous as the covert missions John had once carried out for the SAS.

Finch hadn’t chosen Mars solely because of his martial skills, though, or because John now needed a job.  Above all, Finch also needed a partner he could trust; and he had firsthand knowledge of John Mars’ sterling character.  His courage, intelligence, loyalty and dedication – and his amazing abilities, both as a fighter and a hunter.  He retained vivid memories of Mars, who'd been both ambushed, bleeding and outnumbered, nevertheless coolly trapping and shooting two of the three S.S. soldiers sent to kill him, and of watching him sprint off, silent and swift as a leopard, after the third; and of John’s cheerful return shortly after, with the last of his would-be killers subdued and in handcuffs.  John Mars was a superb fighter and tactician, brave, quick thinking and deadly.  Though he had a conscience, he could also be ruthless if necessary.  He was precisely the kind of man Finch’s plans required.

Finch also knew what’d happened to John’s wife.  While he’d secretly been a bit jealous of Jessica Mars when John had worked for him, Finch had admired her courage too.  John had told him that she’d never flinched from her work as a nurse, refusing to leave her hospital in London even during the worst of the Blitz.  He knew John had loved her passionately.  Given that and the type of man he was, Finch was sure that John would want revenge…

Finch wanted it for her, too.  He also wanted it for the millions of Jews who’d been murdered during the war, and for Nate Ingram and his own family as well. 

Though he kept his face carefully blank, an old, familiar grief seized Finch as he walked anxiously up and down by the river.  Nathan and Harold’s whole family were all dead.  Though Nathan had been a casualty of the war, Harold felt his family had all died at least partly because of him, because he hadn’t been there in time.  His failure was a hideous truth, and his guilt over it a burden that he would always bear. 

Rescuing John Mars from the ignominious death he seemed to be seeking in a bottle lately was something he could do to even the scales a little.  A way, perhaps, to make something good happen, after so much tragedy.  He couldn’t bring back Nathan, John’s wife or his own family, but he could be there in time for John.  If saving him was still possible…

Finch believed it was, and he had to try.  He owed Mars so much, for more than just his life.  His debt to the former Sergeant had begun even before Mars had saved him from the Germans.  Though Finch had let no one else see it, Nathan’s death had carved a hole in his very soul.  He’d been so terribly lonely without him.  He’d had only his work to sustain him, and though he’d done his best to bury himself in it, at times, it wasn’t enough. 

Then Sgt. John Mars had been assigned to guard him.  Finch still believed John had saved his life before they even said hello, by catching him on the steep stone steps at Bletchley Park.  Though his handsome face had been what Finch had noticed first, once he'd let down his guard a bit, he’d discovered there was so much more to the young soldier than that.  Mars’ cheerful presence, his ready smile and gentle teasing had reminded Harold of Nathan, and eased his loneliness.  Mars’ sharp intelligence had appealed to him as well.     

Grateful for his protection and his company, he'd decided to repay the young Sergeant by furthering his knowledge of codes and ciphers, knowing that should help keep the Sgt. alive when he went back to war as a covert operative.  It was the least Harold could do for the brave young man who'd risked his life to guard him. 

Much to Harold’s surprise, in the process, they'd quickly become friends.  John Mars was smart, generous, kind and courageous; as fine a man as Nathan Ingram had been.  Finch knew how rare such men were -- in his whole life, he'd met only two.  Sgt. Mars had saved Finch in both body _and_ soul; and even when Harold had offered him anything he wanted in return, John had never asked a thing from him.

_Except the one thing I couldn't give,_ Finch remembered sadly _.  He asked me to help his wife while he was away fighting, if she ever needed it.  I wanted to, but she never asked for my help.  Then it was too late, and she was gone_...

It was bitterly ironic, Finch reflected.  By trying to reward Mars for saving him, by arranging to send him back to the SAS as John had wanted, Finch had unwittingly set a chain of events in motion that had ruined John's life.  Though the outcome had been out of Finch’s hands, he'd've given anything, now, to be able to undo it. 

This was his chance.  Maybe the only chance Harold would ever have to try to atone for the two most dreadful mistakes he'd ever made, and to repay at least some of the debt he owed his former bodyguard.  Though the truth was, he'd’ve found John and contacted him anyway, simply for the pleasure of seeing him again.  He'd missed him terribly these past few years, like he still missed Nathan.

This trip wasn't just meant as a reunion, though.  Finch had several other goals in mind.  He’d decided to try to save John, whether or not Mars agreed to help him with his project.  If he refused to do so, Finch would still make sure that Mars' life changed for the better, even if he had to arrange it anonymously.  Then he would hire someone else and carry on with his other project as best he could.  Because John Mars wasn’t the only one in need of saving.  There were others out there who would suffer if Finch didn’t act.  And last but certainly not least, there were the dead, to whom Finch also owed debts.  If he couldn’t do something to avenge all the people he’d loved and lost, he feared he might lose himself in the same way John had been trying to do.

And that would be unacceptable.  Finch had important plans for both of them. 

Still, those plans were not the uppermost thing in his mind, as he paced up and down by the water.  He kept remembering that day in the woods near Bletchley, when John had saved his life.  The bright flash of John’s happy grin when it was all over.  How he'd laid a hand on his shoulder, looked into his eyes and said that he hadn’t just saved him because it was his duty.

_“I always keep my promises.  Especially to friends.”_

Even now, his memories of that moment and of John's strength and kindness, warmed Harold deep inside.  He’d made a few promises of his own that day.  One concerned the new task he meant to take on, the other concerned his savior.  Though John had turned down his offer of a reward, he’d sworn to himself that day that Sgt. Mars would never want for anything that he, Harold Finch, could provide.  Although fate had prevented him from helping John's wife, now John was in dire need of assistance himself.

And Finch kept his promises, too.

 

*

As John wandered hazily down the street towards a familiar shelter, hoping to get there before it closed for the night, he passed a group of five men of roughly his own age, walking together.  he kept his gaze slightly averted as they passed, not wanting any hassles.  Still, out of old habit, he scanned them out of the corners of his eyes.  He thought he glimpsed a familiar face among them, but having no one left that he cared about, he didn’t turn or slow down.

Then a familiar voice rang out.  “Hey!  Mars!  _John_ _Mars_!  Is that you?  Shit!  What the hell happened to _you_?”

Odd, John thought distantly.  No one had called him by his real name in a long time.  Since he went by “Reese” now, no one in New York even knew it.  But since he had little or no interest in anyone or anything except his next drink anymore, he didn't respond to the man who'd called out to him.  He just kept walking.  A part of him automatically searched his memory for the voice’s owner, though.  He’d always had an extremely good memory, which not even alcohol could fog completely. 

The war, he thought.  I knew him during the war…  An unpleasant face filled his mind:  _Lt. Mark Snow_. 

Shit, he thought.  He hadn’t seen Snow for years, not since Finch had gotten him shipped out to North Africa.  And good riddance, too.  John had never liked Snow, and had hoped he'd never lay eyes on him again.  Snow was a petty thief and a dick, and his voice had been edged with contempt when he’d called out John’s name.  John had no desire to talk to him, so he just kept walking, hoping Snow might think he’d been mistaken about his identity.

But Mark came after him and caught at his arm.  John shook him off, but he’d drunk enough to be a little slow; and before he could turn and walk away, Snow's friends sprang forward and surrounded him. 

“Well, well,” Snow said, smiling nastily.  “Look how the mighty have fallen.  If it isn’t SAS Sergeant Mars, the spy.”

Reese just stared at him, not showing even a flicker of reaction.  He didn’t give a rat’s ass what Snow thought of him.  But the ugly, leering amusement on the faces of Snow’s friends annoyed him.  Pretending to sway, then stagger a bit, as if far drunker than he was, Reese turned in a slow circle, taking in every detail about each of Snow's grinning friends as he moved.

When he turned to face Mark again, Snow pressed closer, invading John’s space.  “You used to be so gung-ho, I'm sure you went back into action after I Ieft.  But you don't look so good now,” he sneered.  “What happened, was the covert stuff too much for you?  Or were you something else?  Maybe a sniper?” he taunted.  “One of those cowards who hides while he kills, then runs away to leave the fighting to the real men?”

Reese almost rolled his eyes at that.  Real man, my _ass_ , he thought.  Snow had never been anything more than a bully, and some things never changed. 

He took deep breaths to ready himself as he silently weighed his options.  Snow obviously believed John was too drunk to defend himself, so he was pushing for a fight he was sure he and his friends could win. 

Wrong, Reese thought wryly.

He’d already finished threat assessing, and there was none here.  Snow had a handgun tucked in his belt, but that was no problem, and none of his buddies were armed. Though there were four men with him and one was big, only two of them looked like former military men.  And none of them -- including Mark Snow -- had anything like Reese's level of training at hand-to-hand combat, or his years of experience at killing with his bare hands.  If they had, they’d’ve been more cautious, and never have gotten so close to him.  Reese estimated it wouldn’t take him more than seven seconds at most, to lay them all out.  On a good day, if he wasn’t drunk and underweight, it would’ve only taken him four. 

The only question was, was the level of annoyance Snow presented worth the effort it would take Reese to respond?  It was possible, though not likely, that if he stayed silent, Snow might get bored and go away.  Reese decided to wait a bit longer and see.

Instead, Snow grew bolder and poked at Reese’s shoulder.  “What’sa matter?  Cat got your tongue?  And where the fuck did you get these clothes, anyway?  Steal them out of a trashcan?  Smells like it,” he jeered.

His buddies laughed derisively, taking courage, as bullies always do, in numbers.  Stone-faced, Reese amused himself by considering six different, equally painful ways he could shut them up.  He knew he was going to have to now.  He kept quietly taking deep breaths, readying himself.

Snow’s eyes narrowed a little.  “Or maybe you did somethin’ worse,” he speculated.  “Someone’s lookin’ for you, sport.”

Reese didn’t respond, he just kept breathing deeply, readying himself to act.  Doing what he’d done in the war, he’d made plenty of enemies.  But he doubted very much if any of them were over here, or could’ve traced him even if they were.  Living on the streets under an assumed name and without a fixed address as he did, made it next to impossible for anyone to find him.  Besides, even if an old enemy was looking, Reese had given up on living a long time ago.  Now it was just a question of how and when he'd die, not if.  Reese also thought it was likely that Snow was lying about someone searching for him, just to try to get a rise out of him. 

Snow leaned in closer.  “Yeah, you must’ve fucked up royally somehow,” he crowed with a nasty smile. 

Reese took one last deep breath, poised on the verge of explosion.

Then Snow sneered, “’Cause I hear you got a big, bad _Jew_ lookin' for you.  None other than Mr. Harold fucking _Finch_!”

Snow and his friends all burst out laughing again, as if he'd told the funniest joke ever.

Instead of attacking him, Reese froze.  “ _Finch_?” he croaked, stunned.  Snow had finally gotten his attention.

Memories filled John's head, flooding in, startling in their intensity.  It’d been several years since he’d seen the reclusive mathematician/scientist who he'd once guarded.  So much had happened since…  He’d gone to North Africa with the SAS, spied and worked against the Germans there, been betrayed and tortured, lost his wife, then been court-martialed and disgraced.  Having lost everything, he’d left England and come back to America.  Then he’d started drinking. 

He didn’t know what’d happened to Finch since the war.  The public was still unaware of all the code-breakers at Bletchley Park had accomplished, because their efforts and methods were still classified by the British government.  But Reese knew how immensely important their work had been.  He considered them heroes for inventing the machine that'd cracked the German Enigma machine’s codes and helped the Allies win the war. 

John hadn’t seen Finch since he’d been sent back to Africa in ‘43, though.  He’d assumed Finch must’ve forgotten all about him.  Evidently not.  Snow had no reason to lie about Finch looking for him, but...

Startled into thinking out loud, Reese muttered, “What does he want with me?”

Snow heard him and pushed at his shoulder again, jeering at him.  “Who the hell knows?  Maybe the little Kike needs someone to shine his shoes -- or _lick his boots_.”  Snow’s buddies all laughed and pushed in a bit closer, and one of them jostled Reese roughly.

_Enough_ , Reese thought darkly.  Snow had pissed him off anyway, and his insults to Finch and the way he and his friends were pushing at him, sent a sudden flare of rage burning through the emptiness inside him.  Harold Finch had been both his teacher and his friend.  He had very fond memories of him, and great respect for him, too.  He’d always suspected that Finch had even pulled some strings to help him get back into action with the SAS in Africa.  Despite what'd happened later, it was what he'd wanted at the time, and he was sure it was Finch who'd made sure he got it.  He'd done a lot for him, and John never forgot a debt.  Besides, Finch wasn’t only brilliant and kind, he was also worth ten of Mark Snow, any day.

Plus, Snow had just called Harold a 'kike'.  John was going to kick his ass for that, if nothing else.

Reese drew one more deep breath, pretended to sway forward and touched Snow's arm to steady himself.  Then before Snow could react, his hand clamped down like a vise, yanking Mark off balance as he moved like a striking snake, taking his gun with one hand, then raising the other to deliver two lightning-fast punches to his nose and throat.  Before Snow even fell, Reese had whirled and started attacking the rest...

When he was done a few seconds later, Reese staggered a little, rubbing at his forehead as his head spun.  He was untouched, and had Snow’s gun.  He tucked it into his pocket, knowing he wouldn’t need to use it.  Snow and all his friends lay splayed out on the ground all around him.  All of them were bleeding, some were cursing, some moaning in pain;  two were knocked out.  Snow was one of the quiet ones, because he was unconscious. 

Reese felt a bit dizzy.  He hadn’t had any fights in a while, so he hadn’t pushed himself like that lately -- especially not after he’d been drinking.  Nice to know he still had it, even if the whiskey slowed him down a little.  His estimate had been accurate, though; it'd only taken him about seven seconds to take them all down.  Almost too easy, he thought.  It might've been a bit more fun if more of them had been armed, or well-trained enough to put up more of a fight. 

He watched the men carefully anyway.  He'd actually gone easy on them, pulling his punches, not using anything near lethal force.  He hadn't killed or maimed anyone.  He'd knocked Snow out with two swift punches, and the worst any of the rest of them had were broken bones.  Kneecaps, mostly.

He couldn’t stay here, though.  None of the men he’d just dealt with would be walking away just yet, but someone else might happen by and report him; and he didn’t want to tangle with the cops.  Once he'd started living on the streets, cops had become an annoyance he'd done his best to avoid.

So he shook himself and walked off down the street, leaving Snow and the four guys with him where they'd fallen, bruised, bloody and shaken.  Reese was barely even breathing hard, but he’d broken Snow’s nose and maybe a few of the others’ kneecaps and arms, and taken Snow’s gun before he had a chance to use it. 

Most fun he’d had in a while, he thought as he walked away.   It was almost enough to make him smile.

He made sure to take a circuitous route as he walked away, though.  Old habits.  He turned a lot of corners and ducked down a few back alleyways, until he could be absolutely sure no one had followed him.

It took Reese longer to get to the shelter that way, but it was worth it.  He'd found a fountain to wash his bloodied hands in along the way, and still made it into the breadline with time to spare.

He kept thinking of what Snow had said, though.  Could it possibly be true that Finch was looking for him?  Was he here in New York?  If so, why?  It'd been so long since he'd felt curious about anything... 

Suddenly he caught the sound of an expensive engine purring up the street, and the men behind him in line turned and began to murmur in surprise.  Reese turned too, and saw a black Rolls Royce pull up to the curb behind them.  Two big men got out and started toward them.  They were well-dressed, but John’s experienced eyes spotted the way their coats had been tailored to conceal the fact that they were both wearing guns. 

For a second, he wondered if Snow had sent them after him.  But no.  Mark was far more likely to swear out a complaint with the cops.  Besides, Snow was probably still lying on the sidewalk unconscious, or at best, barely awake and cursing his luck -- and his broken nose and missing gun.  He hadn’t had time to pay hired muscle to come after him.  So Reese stayed put, wondering if –

The two men stopped beside him.  One of them said tersely, “Our boss wants to see you.”

Reese squinted at him, silently assessing them.  Both men were neatly dressed, in dark suits and overcoats that cost money.  One wore expensive shoes, so new that they still gleamed.  They didn't look ex-military; 4Fer's, maybe, or ex-cops.  Whoever hired them was obviously wealthy, and paid them well.  Though both were strangers to him, they seemed to know him on sight, which meant that their boss must have pictures of him, which he’d passed on to them so they could track him down.  The one who’d spoken had a native New York accent, but Reese didn’t recognize either of them. 

He was sure he already knew who their boss was, though.  It surprised him that Snow might’ve actually been telling the truth about something, for a change.  He felt a tiny spark of curiosity, of something like anticipation.  Their car alone was a dead giveaway to their boss's identity, but he asked anyway.  His past had taught him to take nothing for granted, and he wasn’t about to get in a car with strangers otherwise.  “Who's your boss?”

“Mr. Harold Finch.”

Reese let out a breath.  He’d always wondered if his past would catch up to him.  He’d just always thought that if it did, it would mean his death.

 

*

About fifteen minutes later, Jim Hartner, one of Mark Snow’s unlucky friends, stirred when he heard someone moan.  He opened his eyes blearily, his head and arm throbbing with pain.  For a minute, he couldn’t remember what’d happened, how he'd wound up on his back on the sidewalk, and in so much pain.  Then he saw Mark Snow sitting nearby, his back propped up against the wall of a building, his eyes half shut, his nose badly swollen and bloodied.  The others they’d left the bar with earlier were splayed out on the ground all around them.  Siefer was moaning, his eyes fluttering, and Thomson was cursing quietly, lying curled over what looked like a broken knee.  Parker laid still, like he hadn’t regained consciousness yet.

“Fuck,” Jim breathed as memory suddenly returned to him _. That goddamn fucking hobo attacked us!_   Hell, he’d wiped the fucking _floor_ with them.  How the hell did he do that?

What’d Snow called him -- 'Mars'?  Tall though he was, Mars had been gaunt, messily bearded, dressed in ragged, dirty clothes and smelled like he’d just crawled out of a bottle, too.  Typical wino.  Everything about him had practically shouted ‘easy prey’, and when Snow had spotted him and told them they were ‘gonna have a little fun with a wino’, Hartner had been looking forward to it.  It wouldn’t be the first time he, Mark and the others had beaten up a bum after leaving a bar.  Usually they didn’t put up much resistance, and they all got in some easy licks.  Hell, sometimes they kicked the shit out of the old drunks.

But that Mars guy – Jesus _fuck_.  Skinny though he was, he’d been far stronger than he’d looked -- and _fast_.  Shit.  Jim had never seen _anyone_ move that fast.  They’d had him boxed in, as usual, but even when Mark had started insulting him, he’d been oddly quiet, hardly saying a word.  No cringing, no whining, no begging...  Just this silent, stony, forbidding stare. 

That right there should’ve tipped them off that something about the tall bum was different, Hartner thought sourly.  Well, that and the fact that Snow had called him “Sergeant”.  What had he said, exactly?  'Sgt. Mars, the spy'?  Something like that.  What kinda spy fought like that, like a fucking _one man army_?

Hartner’s thoughts spun resentfully around the mystery man who’d assaulted them.  Once they’d surrounded him, Mars must’ve known what they had in mind, but he hadn’t acted scared or pleaded for mercy like bums usually did.  No, the freak had only said a few words, “Finch”, and “What does he want with me?” when Snow taunted him that some Jew was looking for him. 

Now Jim knew why the bum hadn't been scared of them, and it pissed him off royally.  But who the hell was Finch, anyway?  Well, some kike, according to Mark, but what else was he?  And was it knowing that Finch was after him that’d set the crazy bum off?

Something sure as hell had.

For once, Mars had been the aggressor, not them.  Before they'd laid a finger on him, he’d just suddenly exploded.  Moving so fast he was almost a blur, he’d grabbed Snow's gun and laid Mark out with a couple of unbelievably fast punches to his face and throat.  Then before Hartner or anyone else could even react, Mars had turned on him, grabbed his arm and twisted it so brutally that Jim had heard an ominous crack, and cried out in shock and pain.  But before he could blink, let alone raise his remaining good arm to defend himself, the bum’s fist had smashed into his face so hard that the blow had thrown him against Siefer and knocked him out.  As Hartner had fallen, consciousness fading, he’d gotten one last glimpse of furious action.  He’d watched in disbelief as the fucking hobo, still moving with unbelievable grace and speed, had tossed everyone else around like they were kindling, too.

It was still hard to believe.  But the proof that it hadn't been a dream was all around him.  His friends all lay there busted up, knocked out and bleeding, and though Jim turned his aching head to check, there was no sign of Mars at all.  The bastard had disappeared. 

_Fucking bum_! he thought, furious.  I oughtta go to the cops, file an assault charge.  Hell, we should _all_ do it.

But then he thought of how the cops would just laugh at them, if they told them what’d happened. 

_Let me get this straight – you’re saying that one guy did all this, to all o’ you?  A bum, at that?_   _A wino?  You sure you all weren’t hittin’ the bottle a bit too hard yourselves?  No?  Then what are you, a bunch o’ pansies?_

The imaginary cop’s scornful laughter rang in Hartner’s ears.  He winced, just thinking about trying to report this.  Shit, no.

Hartner tried to get up instead, and groaned as white-hot pain shot through his right arm.  Looking down, he saw his forearm kilted at an odd angle.  “Fuck,” he gasped, waiting until the worst of the agony faded before cradling it gingerly against his chest.  “Shit, I think it’s broken,” he muttered.  “ _Fuck_!”  Something itched under his nose, too; it felt like dried blood.  He wondered if his nose was broken too.  The way his head ached, it wouldn’t have surprised him.

He turned his head to find Snow watching him.  Mark’s face was bloodied and from the looks of it, his nose was broken too.  Hartner was angry enough to be glad of it.  “Who…the hell… _was_ that fucking bastard?” he ground out furiously.

Snow glared back at him, then shrugged.  “Someone...I knew... when I was in the Army,” he said thickly, his face already swelling, a trail of blood from his nose to his chin.

“No shit!  I figured that!” Jim snarled.  “Heard you call him Sergeant.  I meant, _what_ was he?”

Snow shifted his left leg, trying to get up, but winced at the pain, curling forward.  “Fuck!”

“SNOW!” Hartner barked, livid.  He didn't care how much pain Mark was in -- no way was he going to let him just walk away, without telling him what he’d gotten them all into.  “You said he was a spy, but what kinda spy fights like that?  And why the fuck didn’t you tell us he could do that?”

“Mars…is just…an asshole, all right?” Snow snapped, pushing himself to his feet with a gasp of pain. 

Mark was swaying, and looked like he couldn't stand without the aid of the wall behind him.  That made Hartner feel a bit better, but not so good that he was going to let this go.  “Oh, he’s a helluva lot more than that!  What’s the deal, Snow?”

Mark sighed.  “Mars was SAS,” he said reluctantly. 

“What’s that?”

“British Special Forces.”

Hartner just gave him an exasperated look.

Snow rolled his eyes.  “Jesus.  That's a kind of commando, okay?  But before you start cryin’, that’s just what he _used_ to be, years ago.  Now he’s a fuckin’ _drunk_!  You saw him!”

“Sure!  I _saw him_ wipe the floor with every fuckin’ one of us!” Hartner snarled, cradling his broken arm tightly to his chest.  “Some drunk!”

Snow just shrugged impatiently.  “Who knew?  Look, I ran into this P.I. one night in a bar, a couple months ago.  Showed me Mars’s picture, and I recognized the asshole.  Met him when I was stationed in England years ago.  I never liked him.  The P.I. said he was lookin’ for him, for some rich kike named Finch.  I knew him back then too.  A real geek, and a cripple; but loaded.  Mars used to be his bodyguard.  The P.I. said maybe Finch wants to give Mars a job, whatever.  So when I saw Mars when we came outta the bar earlier, I just thought we’d have a little fun with him.  Mess him up, so Finch won’t want to hire him.  That’s all,” he finished sourly.  “Hell, you saw him!  He’s a fucking wino.  How was I supposed to know he could fight like that?”

Jim gritted his teeth, got to his knees and then to his feet, holding onto his injured arm carefully.  Then he glared, because he had a feeling Mark still knew more than he was saying, that he’d known more about that freak, Mars all along than he’d told the rest of them.  Snow could be a dick sometimes.  “You shoulda’ said something!” he snapped resentfully.  “Warned us—”

“Hey!  If I'd known he could do that, I would've!  In case you haven’t noticed, Mars popped me one, too!” Snow snapped, pointing at his swelling eyes and nose. 

Hartner shook his head, not satisfied but not in the mood to argue any more, just then.  “Just stay here,” he growled, trudging past Snow. 

“Where are you goin’?” Mark snapped.

“Back to the bar.  Someone’s gotta call an ambulance,” Hartner growled.

Snow just grunted and watched him go. 

Hartner moved slowly along, trying not to jostle his arm.  He’d taken it on himself to get help partly for the others, but mostly for his own sake.  If he’d left it up to Snow, he wasn’t entirely sure that Mark wouldn’t just take off and get help for himself, leaving the rest of them to fend for themselves.  Snow was big on what he called “self-reliance”, which often translated to looking after himself first, and everyone else later, if at all. 

Hartner swore to himself that this was the last time he’d ever go out bar-hopping with Mark Snow.  Gritting his teeth against the sharp agony in his arm, he thought, Well, at least I’m walkin’.  The others were still lying there on the street bruised and bloodied, moaning or unconscious.  He sighed to himself. 

“Assholes,” he muttered resentfully.  And he wasn't just talking about that freak, Mars, either.

 

*

As he heard the sound he'd been eagerly awaiting -- the sound of his chauffeur pulling his newest black Rolls Royce to a stop close by -- Finch turned away from the river.  Despite his outward calm, his heart beat painfully fast.  He’d thought of this moment so many times in the past few years.  He’d even dreamed about it. 

If Harold had had his choice, he'd never have let John Mars go.

Even though it was what John had really wanted, it had pained Harold deeply to arrange his transfer back to SAS paratrooper-covert ops training, and to let him leave.  It had seemed like a waste of an extraordinary young man who'd become very dear to him.  Though he knew John Mars was a superb soldier, he also knew the odds were highly against him surviving a second, even more dangerous deployment as a covert operative behind enemy lines in an increasingly vicious war.  Millions of men were being sent out to suffer and die, in a conflict that never seemed to end.  Finch understood the brutal necessity of it.  He'd just wished that John didn't have to be one of them. 

He’d been aware of the selfishness in that, though.  He hadn’t been born in England, but he’d spent most of his life there, and he loved it deeply -- and hated the Nazis even more.  He’d dedicated nearly all his work for years to opposing them, by cracking the secret codes the German military used, to help win the war for the Allies.  Nathan had lost his life in that struggle, too.  He couldn't in good conscience deny Sgt. Mars the chance to do his part in it, as well. 

Though he'd known that John Mars would make an extraordinarily capable and deadly covert operative, and that their separation was probably for the best as far as his hopeless feelings for him were concerned, he’d still have given anything to have kept John as his bodyguard instead. 

The truth was though, that once John had saved him, he hadn't needed a bodyguard any longer.  MI6, MI5 and the OSS had all interrogated the only one of his would-be assassins whom John had left alive.  He’d convinced them that once German Intelligence learned that the elite S.S. team they’d sent to assassinate Finch had failed, and that most of them were dead, the Germans wouldn’t try to kill Finch again.  So MI6 had made sure a weakly coded message was intercepted by known German spies, which contained that information.  Then they'd tried and executed the last remaining S.S. soldier who'd been sent to kill him.

After that, Finch had been safe--from German assassins, at least.

But regaining a measure of safety himself had just made Finch wish all the more that he could keep Sgt. Mars at his side, to ensure his safety as well; though he knew that was foolish.  No one in England was safe while the Luftwaffe bombed England and the Germans shot V-1 rockets at them that shrieked as they fell, and killed thousands.  England was but one small step away from German invasion.  Even so, it was still safer than the places Sgt. Mars would be sent, as an SAS operative. 

After Mars left for Africa, Finch had wondered if he would ever see him again, or if their goodbye at Bletchley had been their last.  He'd never forgotten the warm hug John had suddenly, unexpectedly given him there.  It was the only time John had ever embraced him, and his tall, lethal bodyguard had been so gentle that he'd moved Harold deeply.  The warmth of John's big body, the sensation Harold had felt of tremendous strength wrapped carefully, tenderly around him once John had pressed him gently to his broad chest...  It had literally taken his breath away.  John had made him feel protected, safe, cherished -- even loved.  Perhaps not in the way he most wanted, but loved nonetheless. 

Harold would never forget that hug, as long as he lived.  It had reminded him irresistibly of Nathan, and filled his eyes with tears, and his heart with fear for his young friend.  It'd been all he could do, in that moment, not to embarrass himself by begging John not to go back to war.           And he’d spent many awful, sleepless nights afterwards, wondering if he’d done the right thing by helping Sgt. Mars return to finish his training, or if he'd just sent the last dear friend that he had left to his death.

But Sgt. Mars hadn’t died.  Though neither of them had escaped unscathed, somehow, against all odds, they’d both survived a war that'd killed millions.

When the war ended, it had taken some time for Finch to lay the groundwork for his secret post-war plan, and to arrange for his own exit from England.  He'd had a lot to do, and thrown himself into the work gladly.  He'd secretly made strategic alliances, gathered intel on countless enemies, learned new languages and skills, invented some new gadgets, and left Bletchley Park, arranging his own apparent retirement.  As far as the world was concerned, he was now retired from MI6 and puttering away in a small chateau in the Loire valley in France.  A harmless recluse, making wine from his vineyard and reading books, far removed from anything connected to espionage.  Finch had even arranged for someone to maintain that illusion when he wasn't there.

That minor deception had freed him, at long last, to cross the ocean to find the last vital element for his plan.  It was time to find Sgt. Mars again; time to act.

_Carpe diem_.  

Now that the moment of their reunion had come at last, Finch’s anticipation was so great that it made him feel a bit light-headed. 

To ground himself, he thought again of the day John had come to Bletchley to say goodbye before flying off to Africa.  Those memories were still so vivid...

*

Finch hadn't known that Mars was coming to see him.  He hadn't seen his former bodyguard for weeks; not since Mars had left to finish his SAS training.  He hadn't been sure he'd ever see his younger friend again, and it felt nearly as bad as losing Nathan had.  He'd even wondered, in his darker moments, if Mars would forget him entirely, now that he was back in training. 

Harold had tried to bury his renewed loneliness under a tide of work, and existed on that and coffee.  But every morning when he went to work, the silent, empty space by his office door where John had recently stood, had haunted him.

Until one day, he'd looked up at the sound of a quick, light rap on his door, and there, impossibly, stood Sgt. John Mars again, smiling at him fondly.  Harold's heart filled with a surge of love and joy so strong that it warmed his whole body.

“Sergeant Mars!  Oh, it's good to see you.”  Finch had forgotten himself and smiled openly as he’d lurched to his feet, so delighted by the younger man's unexpected visit that he nearly unbalanced himself in his haste to get up. 

Sgt. Mars wore a dark blue suit and tie and a lighter blue shirt that set off his eyes.  Finch had been forcibly reminded how difficult it had always been not to simply stare at him.  John was so stunningly handsome that Finch had often wondered how many people ever saw past his gorgeous surface enough to realize that he was even more amazing on the inside.  He felt privileged to have gotten the chance to do so, and that a man as extraordinary as John Mars considered him a friend.

*

Harold had better reason than most to admire John Mars. 

Though several years had passed since that day, Finch still remembered everything about it.  Every word they'd said, the warm way John had smiled at him, and the hug John had given him, that'd torn at his heart.

_Please, look me up when you come back.  Anytime._

_-Okay, I'll do that.  Let's have a drink when we finally beat the bastards, Harold._

_I'll drink to that, John._

Harold could only hope, despite the years that'd gone by since and the toll they'd taken, that John Mars still remembered all of that too.  That their friendship had somehow survived war, grief and separation as well.

When the back door of his second Rolls Royce opened, Finch stepped forward anxiously, moving toward it before he could stop himself.  But the tall man who shuffled out of his car’s back seat, squinting a bit against the bright autumn sunlight glinting off the water, brought him to an abrupt halt. 

Finch blinked at him, shocked in spite of himself.  He’d known there would be changes in his old friend, but _this --!_

_Dear God_. _Is that really **John**_?  _It can’t be!_

His giddy sense of anticipation, of delight drained away, replaced by something like horror.  It was hard to believe that this man -- this dirty vagrant, this thin, heavily bearded, ragged _stranger_ \-- could possibly be his handsome, charming young friend.  Finch had to look twice to make certain his bodyguards hadn’t picked up the wrong man, and that this really was former SAS Captain John Mars. 

Mars had been short-haired and clean shaven.  The vagrant Finch was now staring at in shock had long hair, a heavy moustache and  beard, a deep tan from constant exposure to the elements – and just seemed _wrong_ , in almost every way that mattered.  He had Mars’ height and dark hair, but not his strong physique.  Sgt. Mars had been muscular, lithe, confident, with the grace of an athlete.  This man was gaunt, his high cheekbones showing sharply beneath his skin; and he moved slowly toward Finch, like he wasn’t quite sure of his footing, or-- 

_Is he **drunk**?_ Finch wondered, dismayed though he told himself he should've perhaps anticipated that.  Layers of cheap clothes hung on the man's thin frame, but they seemed inadequate protection from the cold.  A long, thin, ragged old overcoat topped a frayed blue sweater, and what looked like a tattered old black suit.  Every layer looked grimy and like it'd been slept in, not once but many times.  His face and hands looked just as dirty.

_Dear God_ , Finch thought, shaken.  _If this **is** John, I should've come much sooner_...

Forcing aside his dismay, Finch moved closer, looking harder at the tattered man.  Despite the layers of grime, as he stared at him, traces of another, more familiar figure began to appear, ghosting up through the ravages left behind by war and sorrow.  His face seemed far too thin at first to be that of the man Finch remembered.  But when he looked closer, there was John Mars' square jaw, more prominent now because he was so thin.  And there were John’s broad shoulders and blue eyes; and the man’s hands…  Finch studied them closely as he approached him. 

The stranger’s hands were large, with long, slender fingers – and he wore a plain gold wedding ring on the left one that Finch knew very well. 

_Oh, God_ \-- _It is him_.  Finch felt both relieved and dismayed.  But dirty or not, those were definitely John Mars’ hands -- and his wedding ring.  He would’ve recognized them anywhere.  

Finch was both glad that he'd found his old friend, and saddened because Sgt. Mars was now a widower.  He had been for some time.  Jessica Mars had died in 1943, but Finch wasn't surprised that John still wore his wedding ring, all the same.  Some men would’ve let go and moved on, but he’d seen how deeply love and loyalty were rooted in John’s character.  John Mars was holding on hard to the past, even though that grip was slowly killing him.  That much was clear to Finch before they even spoke.

Finch didn't judge him for it, though.  How could he, when he was haunted by ghosts of his own?  He recalled something John had once told him:  _Soldiers cry too, you know_.  Finch ached for his old friend.  He just wasn’t sure if John's grief would make his task of saving (and hopefully, recruiting) him easier or harder.  It would depend on whether Mars wanted to do something about the sad turn his life had taken, or if he was too far gone to try.  Only time would tell.

_I'm sorry, John_ , Finch thought, stricken anew with guilt at what he'd inadvertently wrought.  _God, I'm so sorry..._

Forgetting what he’d meant to say, Finch just stared at his former friend and bodyguard.  It was all he could do to keep his shock and sadness from showing.  The private detectives he’d hired to find the former Sgt. Mars had informed him that after his court martial and his wife’s death, Mars had gone downhill and started drinking.  One had even mailed Finch some black and white photos of John.  But they’d been taken months ago, when Finch had first paid them to trace his whereabouts.  Though he’d sported a heavy beard in those photos and looked much grimmer than the man he’d remembered, Mars had still had short hair and been decently dressed then, and not nearly as thin as he was now. 

Since Finch had recognized him at once, he'd never asked for photos of John again; so he hadn’t seen the full extent of the damage Mars had done to himself since.  While he knew John had changed, he hadn’t been prepared to find the handsome, splendid young man he’d known, so terribly deteriorated. 

John Mars, who’d once been a proud, handsome, disciplined soldier, was now worse than merely shabbily dressed and disheveled.  He was thin, gaunt, a man on the edge, barely clinging to life at all.  His once thick, shiny, neatly cut black hair was now long, unkempt and greasy.  Dull strands hung over his forehead and down onto his shoulders, like it hadn’t been washed or cut in months. Untended and uncombed, his long hair had been blown into tangles and snarls by the wind, and it was greying prematurely at his temples.  He’d grown a messy moustache and greying beard as well.  His formerly alert blue eyes were red-rimmed and grim, his mouth bracketed by lines of pain that hadn’t been there when Finch knew him.  He also smelled strongly of alcohol.  Cheap rye whiskey, if Finch wasn’t mistaken. 

Worst of all, Mars showed no reaction to his presence.  Not the slightest of smiles, or any hint of welcome.  In fact, he showed no emotion at all.  He just stared at Finch with haunted eyes, meeting his gaze but saying nothing. 

Finch hadn’t realized just how very much he’d been hoping that John would be glad to see him; at least enough to smile.  But if he’d wanted some indication that their friendship had meant as much to Mars as it had to him, he didn’t get it.  All he felt as he finally halted close to his former friend was a faint sense of alarm.  Looking into John’s blue eyes was like gazing into the eyes of a wounded lion.  His face was expressionless, his eyes wary.  But behind that lurked something darker, something he’d only glimpsed in John once, that day in the woods long ago.  A ruthlessness, the sharp, unblinking gaze of a predator.

Once they stood only a few feet from each other and Mars began to study him in return, Finch felt a little chill go down his spine, felt the hairs lift at the back of his neck.  Every instinct he had warned that even now, even like this, John was still very dangerous.  It seemed as if war and grief had stripped away his kindler, gentler self.  Or had living on the streets forced his predatory side to the fore?  Finch wasn't sure, but somehow, despite his dirty clothes and too-thin frame, Mars now seemed even more deadly than the decorated combat veteran Finch had once known.

Harold's mouth went dry.  He used to think that John Mars would never hurt him; but this man didn't seem like John Mars.  This unpleasant shock, this cold wariness wasn't at all what he'd expected at their reunion.  He’d hoped that John might hug him, shake his hand or at the very least, greet him by name.  But Mars just stared at him silently with silvery blue, intense, unfathomable eyes.  Mars might look drunk, he might even _be_ drunk.  Still, his stare was intent enough that Finch had no doubt his piercing eyes were taking in everything around them and every minute detail of his own appearance, down to the very last hair on his head.

But to what end?  Oh no.  Did he feel uneasy because Mars was assessing him as a possible _threat_?

That idea chilled Finch, and deepened his painful sense of disappointment.  Then he reminded himself that John’s silent, suspicious demeanor probably had nothing to do with him.  according to all the reports he’d received, John Mars’ life had been extremely harsh once he'd gone back to war, and even worse after.  He'd carried out terribly dangerous missions for the SAS in North Africa:  spying, seductions, assassinations, bombing raids on airfields, supply trains and munitions depots.  He'd been very successful, and done considerable damage to the Germans, while pretending to be merely a factory drone, working at an automobile parts manufacturing plant. 

Finally he'd been betrayed by his own partner, who’d informed on him to the Gestapo and most likely shot him, before disappearing while John was captured and tortured. 

Though John had managed to escape and survive all that, then he’d lost his wife and been court-martialed by the very army he’d devoted his life to.  All because some idiotic superior officer had refused John the one thing he'd ever asked the military for:  bereavement leave, which should've been his due, so he could visit his wife's grave.  And if all that wasn’t enough, since he'd come back to the U.S., John had been mostly jobless and homeless, as well.

Mars had just suffered one hammer blow after another, until he finally broke.  Now, according to the reports Finch’s private detectives had sent him, he spent his days drinking far too much and his nights sleeping it off, either in shelters or out on the streets.  The detectives had speculated about various unsavoury ways that John might be earning the money for his liquor.  Finch had shuddered to think that any of their theories might be true.  Vicious, no-holds-barred, illegal fights or worse, selling himself?  The very idea of his old friend, his hero, being reduced to either of those wretched things made him feel ill.

Still, it was clear that former Captain John Mars of the SAS wasn’t merely down on his luck or sad.  He looked broken, like he’d lost the will to live.

_Oh John_ , Finch thought, grief piercing him at the terrible changes in his friend.  They were partly his fault, to be sure, but the Nazis had played a larger part in the ruin of John Mars’ life.

Still…  Finch had seen men and women in even worse shape than this, during the war.  John Mars wasn’t irreparably damaged yet.  He just needed hope.  A sense of purpose.  Something to distract him from the pain, betrayals, loss and grief that’d clearly overwhelmed him.  Finch hoped that was true, anyway.

That’s what I’m here for, he thought.  Though he wasn’t entirely sure he could convince Mars to accept his help.  He remembered how John had reacted years ago, when he’d offered him whatever he wanted for saving his life.  Other men might've asked for money or a promotion in rank, or perhaps at the very least, a medal.  John had just smiled, and said that he’d done it because they were friends.  The only thing he'd ever asked in return -- that Finch help his wife while John was fighting overseas -- Harold had sadly been unable to do. 

He hoped John could forgive him for that, and that given a purpose, he could find his way again.  Finch had to believe that somewhere inside this grimy, wary, shattered man, some traces of the splendid, smiling young soldier he remembered still remained -- other than his ability to kill.  Finch could sense that despite his rags, gaunt condition and all his other losses, Mars hadn't lost that.

But his lethal side wasn't the part of Mars Finch needed to connect with.  He needed to reach the part of John who'd once been his friend.  Maybe, if he was very lucky, someday he’d win a smile from him again.  But even if he never did, even if Mars had no interest in his friendship anymore, Harold vowed silently that his days of living in poverty and misery on the streets were over.  He would do at least that much for him; but he hoped…  Oh, he hoped to do so much more. 

“Hello, John,” he said at last, very gently.

 

*

 

Harold, John thought as Finch walked up to him, his slightly jerky gait instantly familiar.  Jesus, it's really _you_.

“Hello, John.”  Finch's voice was very gentle, and he smiled tentatively.  But Reese didn't answer or smile back.  He was busy studying Finch silently, half in curiosity, half in something like awe.  He hadn't seen a friendly face in so long, let alone someone who'd been as close to him as Finch once was.  It was a bit of a shock. 

Harold seemed just the same as John remembered.  Small, intense and serious.  Maybe a few pounds heavier, but that was good.  He'd been too skinny during the war, always so intent on his work that he'd forget to eat.  He looked better now:  more solid, more rested, less harried.  Harold's large blue eyes were still bright and sharp behind his glasses,  and as always, his clothes were expensive.  Tasteful though, conservative rather than flashy, and he still wore a handkerchief matching his fancy silk tie in his left pocket.

John stared openly at Harold, taking in every detail about him hungrily, a bit surprised himself by the fact that it _mattered_ , when nothing had for so long.  But it pleased him that Finch looked good, that he'd stayed safe, and was obviously still wealthy and prosperous.

When he finished his careful scrutiny of his old friend, John felt a sharp sense of satisfaction that verged on possessiveness.  For a moment, the reaction surprised him.  Then again, Harold had once been his, in a way.  His duty, his assignment, his to protect; but more than that, he'd been a very good friend.  A true one who'd helped him immensely, and who'd never turned on him, never betrayed him.  Harold's teaching had saved his life, during the war.

John had almost forgotten such people existed.

There was one difference in Finch, though:  he'd just called him ‘John’.  He’d seldom done that before, and usually only in unusual situations, when his self control had briefly cracked.  Like when that S.S. squad had tried to kill him, and when they'd said goodbye at Bletchley.  It was a small thing, but Finch had always been so careful, so precise in his speech – and part of John’s covert ops training had been in sharpening his already acute observational skills, so he’d notice even tiny things that were out of place.  So he wondered why the change. 

He shrugged the question away though.  He was still too paranoid.  The war was over now, and Finch wouldn’t hurt him, so it didn’t matter.

_Maybe_ , a little voice whispered nastily in his head, _he just called you that because he’s lost all respect for you.  Like everyone else._

That little voice had begun whispering dark things to him the day he’d learned that Jessica had died.  Sometimes he thought that was part of why he’d started drinking so heavily -- to shut it up.  But it didn’t always work. 

Reese swallowed, trying to ignore it, but unsure how to reply to Finch’s greeting.  Talking didn’t come easily to him now.  He didn’t like his voice much anymore, for one thing.  He didn’t sound like he used to.  His voice was lower and softer now, since his injury.  He’d been caught at the edge of the blast radius of a bomb he’d planted in Casablanca, to blow up a German munitions factory.  While fleeing the scene, he and a pair of Resistance fighters had been delayed by an unexpected German patrol.  Reese had had to kill them, and by the time he had, they'd barely gotten started running again when his bomb had gone off. 

The two resistance fighters with him were unhurt, but Reese hadn't been so lucky.  A piece of flying shrapnel had sliced deep into his throat, nicking his vocal cords.  Luckily, his compatriots had managed to fasten a crude bandage from strips they'd torn off of his shirt, and gotten him to a nearby doctor fast enough to save him from bleeding out.  But he’d been left with a slightly damaged, lowered voice and a thin scar on the side of his neck, one of many. 

He was glad his clothes covered them.  He didn’t want to talk about his altered voice, or let Finch see any of his scars.  It’d been a long time since they’d last met, and he hated the thought that Harold might pity him.  He still had no idea what he wanted, or why he’d had his men pick him up off of the street like this. 

He hoped Finch just wanted to say hello, for old times’ sake.  Still, he was curious about why Finch had sought him out.  It seemed odd, when he hadn’t heard from his former charge and teacher since he’d left England.

Granted, that hadn’t been Finch’s fault.  Even if he’d wanted to stay in touch, he wouldn’t’ve been able to.  Reese had been forced to cut off contact with everyone he knew, including his own wife, when he’d parachuted into North Africa with the SAS.  Spies behind enemy lines didn’t have the luxury of contacting anyone back home other than their handlers.  He'd been restricted to occasional, highly dangerous coded radio messages back to MI6, which had to be brief or else the Germans would triangulate his location from the signal.

_I didn’t even know when Jessica died_.  The painful thought reverberated through Reese’s mind for the millionth time.  SAS had finally radioed him a message about it several days after she was killed, but he hadn't received it.  He'd been away from his radio when she died, badly injured and hidden in Lucienne's apartments, while he recovered from Gestapo torture.  He hadn't found out until several weeks later, when the heat of German pursuit had finally died down enough for him to leave. 

After that, he'd hidden out with the local Resistance fighters he'd worked with there, for a while.  He'd used their radio to contact the SAS, to let them know he was still alive and uncompromised. 

But when they'd sent back the message that Jessica was dead, killed in a bombing raid in London, life as he'd known it had ended.  In that instant, Reese wished he hadn't survived his torture, had wished the Gestapo had just fucking killed him.  He'd wanted to put his gun to his head, but he'd put it off because he'd still had a job to do.  He'd been SAS, and he'd still had his duty.

Remembering how he'd learned of his wife's death still hurt, but Reese pushed the memories aside, to focus on the present.

The two men who’d picked him up were obviously Finch’s bodyguards now.  John recognized hired muscle when he saw it.  But they’d been polite enough, simply telling him that Finch wanted to see him, then opening the doors of the big, shiny black Rolls Royce they were driving, so he could climb in.  He’d gone along with it partly because he’d always loved those cars, and he hadn’t ridden in one since he’d been Finch’s bodyguard.  Besides, he had nothing better to do, he could handle the hired muscle easily if necessary, and a ride in a Rolls would be a nice change from his current daily routine of trying to poison his liver. 

Or so he’d told himself.  But suddenly, standing in front of Finch, Reese knew he’d really come here to see him again.   

_He was my friend_ , he thought.  _A really good friend_ …  He felt something he’d thought was long dead.  Something like the flicker of a candle warmed him, deep inside.  He realized, he still cared about Harold Finch.  He wasn't sure he wanted to.  He'd been numb except for grief and anger for so long...  Yet he still cared.  It was the first time he’d felt warmth or affection for anyone since Jessica’s death.  He hadn't even thought he was still capable of that.

Though Reese's gaze at Finch was stony, revealing nothing, inwardly, he was surprised.  He’d been drifting along like a ghost, with nothing and no one to care about, for almost three years.  But now, out of the blue, Harold Finch was here.

_I still have a friend_.  He was hardly able to take it in.  Unsure what to do with the knowledge. 

Reese had always imagined Finch would stay in England forever.  _What the hell is he doing in New York?_

Memories flooded in of what it’d been like, guarding Finch.  Harold was a genius, very private and a bit shy, but despite his vast wealth, he’d never been snobbish.  Once he'd gotten used to having a bodyguard, Finch had been good to him.  Kind, in his own way.  He remembered Finch teaching him codes and ciphers, late into the night.  How he'd memorize them from Finch's blackboard during the day, then struggle with them at night, trying to get a handle on what looked like gibberish.  And the excitement he'd felt when, after several false tries, he'd finally get a sense of the pattern, decrypt the message and turn the gibberish into words. 

John remembered it all.  Their late-night chess games, the beautiful music that always played in Finch’s house, the rare books he collected, and how Harold had sometimes even unbent enough to smile at him.  Quirky little smiles, when John had made sly chess moves or done things he didn’t expect.  He’d even managed to make Harold laugh out loud a few times, when no one else was around.  And he’d kept those S.S. bastards from killing him that day in the woods.  Saved Finch so he could carry on his important work deciphering secret German military codes, so the Allies knew what the Germans were planning before they did it.  Saving Finch was one of the best things he'd ever done.

But Reese's momentary flicker of pride at that soon slipped away.  Saving Finch had happened in what almost seemed like a different life now, when he'd been Sgt. Mars, the soldier.  Now John was just a bum. 

For the first time in ages, he actually felt a bit embarrassed.  While Finch looked as meticulously neat and well-dressed as ever, John was suddenly acutely conscious of the fact that he was dirty, unshaven, and wearing ragged layers of old cast-offs to keep warm.  His hair and beard were messy and far too long, and he probably reeked of days-old sweat and the cheap rye whiskey he’d been drinking a few hours before Finch’s men had found him.  He hoped he didn't have blood spattered on him too, from his little run-in with Snow and his friends.  Harold had never liked violence; he liked things neat, clean and tidy. 

Hell, I must be offending his sense of sight, smell, style _and_ decorum, all at once. Well, if I’d known I was gonna be grabbed off the street by Harold’s new gorillas for a reunion today, maybe I’d’ve dressed for the occasion, Reese thought wryly.

But maybe not…

Finch raised an eyebrow at him. 

Reese remembered that look.  It was the one Finch always used to give him, when he felt he wasn’t paying attention.  He realized belatedly that he’d never replied to Finch’s greeting.  He’d been so absorbed in looking Harold over, in remembering him, that he'd forgotten to even say hello.

“Mr. Finch,” he answered tersely at last.  Even after all this time, his altered voice still sounded too low to him, almost like a stranger’s in his own ears.  He wasn't used to talking much anymore, either.  So he let it go at that.

Finch blinked a little.  John didn’t know if it was because he thought his voice sounded bad now too, or if he’d wanted John to call him “Harold” in return.  Or if Finch was thinking something else entirely.  For all that he’d really liked Harold, he'd always been a bit remote, very self-contained and hard to read.  Reese remembered how pleased he’d always felt, when he’d said something that broke his reserve and made Finch smile or laugh.

After an awkward pause, Finch said, “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it.  I heard about your wife.  I’m so sorry, John.”

His voice was still very gentle, but Reese had to look away to hide the stab of pain that produced.  Still, he was glad that even though they'd never met, Finch still remembered Jessica. 

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely.  “Me too.”  _You’ll never know how damn sorry_.

“I know we lost touch, when you left for North Africa,” Finch went on.  “But I made it my business to find out where you were after that.  I’ve been keeping tabs on you, Mr. Mars.”

“Have you now.”  Despite the golden haze that drinking always gave him, John felt a flicker of wariness.  Finch had called him _Mr_. Mars, not Sergeant Mars.  So Finch knew he’d been kicked out of the SAS, too.  

“Yes.  Or should I call you _Mr. Reese_?”

What the hell?  John blinked, a little jolt of alarm running through him.  Reese was an alias he'd created in North Africa, and kept using since.  But how the hell did Finch know about it?  And how the hell had he found him?  He suddenly wished he hadn’t drunk quite so much that morning.  He tried to force his clouded mind to focus.  Since Finch had located him, knew that alias, and his guards had had pictures of him, then he must’ve had John watched – either during his SAS days or more recently.  Or maybe both...

_I’ve been keeping tabs on you_ , he’d said.  He wasn't kidding.  But why the hell would Finch do that?  And why, he suddenly wondered, did Finch have _two_ bodyguards now, when the war was over?  Because of his money?  Or was Finch involved in something he shouldn't be?

Reese found that almost impossible to believe.  Finch had always been such a good man.  But he'd been fooled by men he trusted before. 

His questions mounting, Reese started to think he’d miscalculated by coming here -- maybe badly.  He’d been curious about why Finch wanted to see him, but not suspicious, because they’d been friends.  Hell, he’d even allowed himself a tiny bit of pleasure at the thought of seeing Finch again, because he hadn’t spoken to a friend in such a long time. 

He’d made two mistakes.  The first was in letting himself feel happy, even in such a small way.  He didn’t deserve to feel good about anything, after failing to save his own wife.  He'd also screwed up by being stupid enough (and drunk enough) to imagine that maybe Finch just wanted to see him again because they were old friends.  Because of that, and because Harold had always been good to him, he’d never thought of Finch as a threat before -- at least, not to him. 

But Finch had had a reputation at Bletchley, and not without cause.  People who tried to hurt him wound up losing their jobs, or getting sent away -- like Mark Snow.

Is that why he has two bodyguards? Reese wondered.  Did something happen to Finch after I left that made him ruthless?  Did he strike back too hard at someone, and are they after him as a result? 

If that's true, I don't even want to know, he thought wearily.  Harold was one of the few good memories he had left.  He didn't want to lose it...

This was a mistake, Reese told himself again.

Because all at once, Finch sounded less like the old friend he remembered, and more like one of his SAS contacts -- one he wasn't quite sure of.  Clearly, Finch was still a very wealthy man:  his chaffeured Rolls, expensive clothes, private security and soft-looking hands were all proof of that.  And wealth equaled power, and wars could change people profoundly.  No one knew that better than the man who’d once been John Mars.

_I shouldn’t have come_. Reese hadn't been afraid of anything in years, but he hated being lied to or manipulated; and he suddenly wondered if that was what was going on here.  He wondered about other things, too.  In one day, he’d just run into two old acquaintances who he hadn’t seen in years:  Snow and Finch.  How likely was that, in the space of just a few hours?  Reese’s work as a spy had taught him to distrust coincidence.  So were the two things – the two _men_ \-- connected? 

His mind sped faster, suspicion starting to burn away the glow of the whiskey he’d drunk.  Finch had had someone tailing him.  Was it Snow?  He’d been too drunk to consider it at the time, but now he wondered how Snow had known that Finch was looking for him.  Had Finch paid Snow to find him, or to watch him? 

Given their past history, it seemed unlikely.  Finch and Snow had always despised each other, and judging by the insulting way Snow had talked about Finch earlier, that hadn’t changed.  Besides, Snow and his buddies had clearly meant to beat the shit out of him; and knowing how close he and Finch had once been, and that Finch was looking for him, Mark would hardly have done that, then tried to turn him over to Finch for a reward.  Snow would've known that hurting John would piss Finch off royally, and like everyone else at Bletchley, he'd've heard what Finch did to people who pissed him off.  Hell, Snow had _experienced_ it.  He'd been transferred to Africa years ago for far less than that, and Reese had always been convinced that Finch was behind it.  

Given all that, Reese decided it was really doubtful that the two men were working together, which was a relief.  But then he remembered that Snow would’ve sold out his own mother, if you paid him two bucks for it; and Finch was incredibly rich, and had always been determined to get what he wanted.  So if Finch had wanted to find him badly enough, he might’ve paid even someone he hated to do it; and Snow would've taken his money, too. 

But it was more likely that Finch had hired some local p.i.'s to tail him.  Though how Snow would've learned of that, John didn't know.  Could Snow have learned where he was from them?

Reese decided to file the question of Snow’s possible involvement in all of this away for further consideration later **.**   He had a more important question right now.  _What the hell did Finch want him for?_

Finch nodded.  “Oh yes.  I’ve been watching you for a long time.  I know exactly everything about you, Mr. Reese.”

John raised a wary eyebrow.  “Really.” 

His unease was growing.  He was still a bit drunk, but his instincts were on high alert now.  This wasn’t the reunion he’d hoped for.  It was something else entirely.  There were undercurrents here, things going on that he didn’t understand -- yet.  There was a gleam in Finch’s eyes, a kind of urgency about him that he couldn’t quite suppress.  John had only seen him like that once before – when Finch had been on the trail of a spy who’d turned up in his own department.

It was starting to seem like Finch had hunted him down, now.  But why? 

Reese felt uneasy.  His feelings were jumbled.  Affection and respect for Finch battled with the paranoia and distrust he’d learned later.  His past had come back to haunt him all right, but now he wasn’t sure what shape the ghost would take:  friend or foe?  First Snow, now Finch, and that odd look in his eyes… 

_What the fuck_ ’ _s going on?_

He stared at Finch warily.  Despite the open space around them, John was starting to feel a little cornered.  A bit defensive, and slightly drunk as he was, that could prove dangerous.  Especially since it was now obvious that his old friend, _the genius_ , wasn’t here to talk about old times. 

_I should’ve known_ , Reese thought bitterly.  _A rich, successful guy like Finch wouldn’t've come all the way here and tracked me down just for that._   _'Cause if he had me followed, then he knew what I've become before he came here to meet me_.  _And who'd wanna talk over old times with a drunk?_

No, he realized sadly.  Finch definitely wanted something from him, wanted it badly enough to leave his work, his estate and his books and cross an ocean to find him – but it wasn't friendship. 

“Yes.  I know that you were an extremely effective SAS agent in North Africa.  So successful that within six months, you were promoted to the rank of Captain.  But then you were betrayed and probably shot by your own partner.  He informed on you to the Gestapo, then disappeared.  They captured and tortured you; and your wife died soon after, while you were recovering. 

I know that when you learned of her death, you asked for leave to return to England to pay your respects, and despite the usual British Army custom of honoring such a request from a decorated officer, you were refused.  Told you were being reassigned, and that you'd be sent to train partisans in Italy instead.  At which point you went AWOL, and tried to board a ship back to England.  But you were caught, arrested, court-martialed and dishonorably discharged.”

What the _fuck_?  Reese stared at him in shock, as stunned as if Finch had hit him.  His instincts were screaming at him now.  How the hell did Finch know all of that?  _any_ of it, even his step up in rank?  He’d briefly been promoted to Captain, before he was court-martialed.  But no one in New York, no one outside the SAS could possibly know any of that.  Reese had never spoken of his promotion to anyone – let alone the rest of it.Since he’d beena covert agent, it was all highly classified, confidential information.  He'd kept it secret for years.  To discover it, Finch would've had to get a hold of internal SAS files – of John’s fucking _personnel_ file, and the records from his field court martial too, and all that was supposed to be _impossible_ –

Get a grip, John told himself sourly, forcing aside his own astonishment.  Nothing’s impossible when there’s enough money involved.  Money buys power; and Finch is a billionaire.  Plus he worked for MI6 and was -- probably still is -- close to Churchill, for God sakes.  He knows lots of heavy hitters -- not just in England, but all over the world. 

Given all that, it wasn’t so surprising that he'd managed to get hold of top secret files to learn John's deepest secrets.  The real question was, why had Finch bothered?  This wasn't a reunion, so why go to so much trouble and expense to research deeply buried, highly classified background info. on him?  Why come so far to find a washed-up drunk?

He’d already guessed the answer.  _Finch wants something from me_ …

“I know that’s why you went AWOL and were court-martialed.  For trying to return to London against orders, to visit Jessica’s grave.”

_Jessica_. 

Another blow -- a worse one.  No one had spoken her name to him in so long…  Reese was still reeling from Finch’s in-depth knowledge of his supposedly top secret past.  Hearing her name on top of that hit him hard, like a slap in the face. 

He stared at Finch blindly as emotions raged through him, taking him by surprise.  Reality slipped away as memories overwhelmed him...

 

*

**_December, 1943_ **

 

“You can't go back to England, Captain Mars,” Major Dozer said, sounding indignant at the very idea.  “That's out of the question!”

“What?” Reese blurted, shocked. 

He’d finally rallied enough, after hearing of Jessica’s death, to radio the SAS that he needed to meet with a superior officer about being sent home at last.  They’d radioed back and set up a meet with one SAS Major Dozer.  Reese knew he was taking a chance in even meeting briefly with an SAS officer in Casablanca, when the Gestapo still had a warrant out for his arrest.  But Dozer was here on some classified mission of his own, and Mars needed the approval of a superior officer in order to go home. 

Since he’d recovered from being tortured, Reese had taken some steps to disguise himself, too.  He’d gotten phony I.D. papers in a different name from his friends in the Resistance, shaved off his beard and dyed his hair a lighter color to change his appearance and evade the Gestapo.  It was all he could do, and the truth was, now that he’d lost Jess, the risk of being recaptured just didn’t matter as much to him anymore. 

Nothing mattered as much as going home.  The only purpose he had left was going back to England to visit Jessica’s grave, to say goodbye.

So here he sat, with his back to a wall in a tiny little room hidden at the back of a rug merchant’s shop, secretly meeting with Dozer.  The rug merchant was a man Reese trusted, at least as far as he trusted anyone anymore.  He’d had the SAS radio him Dozer’s description too, heavily encrypted of course, so he could be sure the man who showed up to meet him really was the Major.  Dozer matched the description he’d been given:  middle-aged, brown haired, blue-eyed, about 5 ft. ten. 

Still, the meeting wasn’t going the way Reese had expected.

He’d never imagined that Dozer would say no to him.  Due to his successful covert operations against the Germans in North Africa, Reese had recently been promoted to the rank of Captain; and every British officer had the right to request bereavement leave if his spouse died while he was away fighting.  It was a sad but traditional privilege of rank.  Reese had never heard of such a request being refused.

Until now.

“I repeat, you're not going back to England.  Apparently, you're rather good at your work, Captain Mars.  You're needed here,” Dozer said sternly. 

_No!_   Reese stared at him, a terrible, unreasoning rage starting to build inside him.  Was this asshole, who'd probably (from the hefty look of him) spent most of the war sitting safely on his ass behind a desk, trying to tell him that being a good British agent, which had already cost him everything, was also going to keep him from even going home for a few days, to mourn Jess?

Dozer looked away, shifting in his chair, his eyes checking the room’s exits.  Reese wasn’t sure if he was nervous about meeting an agent the Gestapo were still hunting, or if he was afraid of what Reese himself might do, at his unheard-of refusal.  “Or more precisely, you're needed in Europe.  I've been sent to relay your new orders.  You're being reassigned, Captain.  Sent to train resistance fighters in Italy.  Sicily's the next step, you know.  Then the fighting will most likely shift to the Italian mainland.  We need a Resistance to be functioning there when it does.  You’re to leave Tobruk in two days.  There’s a troop ship docked at Rabat, fortunately.  You’ll be taking that to Portofino, Italy, then…” 

The Major droned on about the details of his new assignment, but Reese had stopped listening.  He set his jaw so hard that his teeth ground together, and a muscle corded in his cheek.  _Italy!_   What the _fuck_?  If they sent him there, he’d never get home!  Not for years, or maybe not ever.  He was willing to die for England, he always had been.  But not before he had a chance to pay his final respects to his wife, who'd already died because of his devotion to his adopted country.

Considering all the terrible things the British Army and SAS had asked him to do, he wasn't asking much in return.  Hell, he'd never asked for anything for himself before.  He tried to control his fury, clenching his fists and swallowing hard.  “Sir,” he rasped, “you don't understand.  I just want a few day's leave, then I'll come back and ship out wherever the SAS wants me to go.  But my wife just died, and--”

“I understand,” Dozer cut in coldly.  “You lost your bit of skirt, back home.  I just don't give a fuck what your little problems are!  I don't care if your dog just died too!  Those are your orders, _Captain_ , and you will obey them!”

Jessica's death, a _little problem_?  Jessica, called 'a bit of skirt', like she was a _whore_?  Jessica's death, compared to the death of a _dog_?  At Dozer's callous words, something inside Reese that'd been barely holding onto sanity since he'd heard of her death, just snapped; and a raw, blind rage took over.

_Nooooooooo!…_

He exploded, surging to his feet as a roaring filled his head.  Seconds later, Reese was down on the floor on top of Dozer, forearm jammed against his throat to cut off his air.  Dozer struggled briefly, his face turning red, but he was no match for Reese’s strength and fury.  Reese just pressed down harder, and a moment later, Dozer’s eyes fluttered closed and he went limp as he lost consciousness.

Reese was so enraged that he didn’t realize at first that the Major had passed out.  Finally it registered, and a measure of sanity returned.  He let Dozer go and staggered to his feet.  He swayed a little, breathing hard, and put his hands to his head.  It’d been aching since he got up, and since he’d learned of his wife’s death, sometimes it filled with a roaring sound that wouldn't stop.  It made it hard to think.

“Jessica,” he muttered, trying to focus.  “I have to get back to her...”

That helped.  If he thought of it as a mission, it made his overwhelming grief a bit more bearable.  He headed for the back door of the tiny room.  Once he got outside, into the bright desert sunlight, his head cleared a little more. 

_I just attacked a superior officer_ , he realized, with a little tingle of unease.  Of course, compared to a lot of things he'd done in the war, that was nothing.  He'd just knocked the major out, when he could easily have killed him.  After what he'd said about Jessica, the sonofabitch was lucky Reese hadn’t broken his fucking callous, disrespectful neck.  But the Army wouldn't see it that way.  If Dozer pressed charges, Reese would be arrested; and since the major was an asshole, it was extremely likely that he'd do just that, as soon as he woke up.  If Reese was going to make it back to England, he had to go now.

But if he went without permission, he'd be AWOL. 

_She's dead_ , John thought, grief and despair filling him again.  And after the way Dozer had just treated him, refusing his request for leave, telling him he was going to be sent overseas instead...  It was yet another betrayal, and John's sense of duty finally died.  _What does going AWOL matter?_  He strode away silently.  

He headed north for Rabat, the nearest port that was now in British hands, where he could buy a ticket on a ship bound for England.  Knowing Dozer would soon report him in detail, right down to the clothes he’d been wearing, he stole some new clothes first, and changed to evade pursuit – this time, by his own side.  Since the British Army would be looking for a man alone and on foot, he hitched rides where he could, but that and his stolen clothes were the extent of his efforts to hide his identity.  Sick with grief, he thought of only one thing:  getting back to England to find Jessica’s grave.

He made it to the docks in Rabat, but Major Dozer had obviously reported him, and he found that the passenger ships were being closely watched by British soldiers.  He waited for nightfall, then tried to slip onto a freighter bound first for Portugal, then to Portsmouth, England. 

But luck was against him.  A sailor caught sight of him slipping over the railing onto the deck, and raised the alarm.  British soldiers swarmed onboard the ship, and Reese was captured.  It wasn’t pretty.  It took about ten soldiers, but finally, he wound up bruised and handcuffed in the back of a British Army transport truck, guarded by two MP's. 

Capture just pissed him off even more, though, and the SAS itself had long ago taught him how to escape handcuffs.  So he'd just waited silently until his two guards relaxed and started talking.  Then he'd picked the lock on his cuffs, knocked the guards out with their own guns, took one of their pistols and headed for the docks again.

They sent a whole squad after him that time.  When they caught him trying to stow away on another ship, they'd surrounded him again and that time, a Captain told him grimly that they'd shoot him in the head if he didn't surrender.  But when he held up his hands to do so, another soldier knocked him out from behind with a rifle butt. 

They must've driven him back to the British base in Rabat while he was out of it, because he woke up in a cell there about an hour later, head aching like fuck, chained hand and foot and under heavy guard.  He realized later that the only reason they'd caught him was that he'd been so grief-stricken, he hadn't been thinking straight.  He'd been having a lot of nightmares, too.  Not sleeping much.  He hadn’t been at his best at all. 

The charges against him were serious.  Assaulting an officer, being AWOL, resisting arrest, escaping from custody...  They’d told him they’d convene a field court martial shortly.  Not that Reese had cared. 

He'd finally given in and let them hold onto him, because by that time, he knew he was finished in the SAS anyway.  Given that, he’d realized he’d actually get back to England faster if he let them prosecute him, than if he kept on trying to escape.  If he pretended to cooperate for a while, they'd either discharge him so he could head for England, or sentence him to prison.  Even if they chose imprisonment, by that time they'd've loosened their security on him, and he could escape again.  So either way, no matter what he had to do, he'd go back to England anyway.

For Reese, the war was finally over.  He’d stayed quietly in his cell after that.  He’d paced a lot, but he hadn’t tried to escape again.  For the moment, the security on him was too tight.  He was being watched constantly, so he bided his time, awaiting his trial.  Still, he’d needed a distraction.  He knew if he thought too much about Jess, he’d find a way to end it all, right there.  And he didn’t want to die in that dirty cell, far away from England and the place where Jess was buried…

No, he hadn't wanted to die quite yet, before he'd completed his one last mission, of getting back there.

In desperation, he’d cast about for some good memories unconnected to Jessica.  Something he could while the time away with, that would make him feel a bit less like shooting himself.  For whatever reason, his early SAS training had floated back into his mind.  “C and C”, they’d called it – “Codes and Ciphers” class, the same as the name of Finch's department at Bletchley.  Though some of the other candidates had struggled with it, John had loved the subject from the first. 

While he sweated in his hot, dirty cell in Morocco waiting for his court martial, he’d seized on those memories gratefully.  He’d summoned the tall, slender shape of Col. Barrows to mind, his SAS C and C instructor, standing stiff and formal at the front of the class as he lectured.  “ _Ciphers differ from codes thusly:  when you substitute one word for another word or sentence, you have a code.  When you mix up or substitute letters, you have a cipher.  There are two main types of ciphers:  Substitution and transposition, though there are also many variations of these_ …”

First, Reese had mentally reviewed his SAS training.  Then on the second day of his captivity, as a little gift to himself, he’d begun to slowly unwrap his memories of his favorite codes and ciphers teacher:  Harold Finch.

_“You’re familiar with both types of ciphers, I assume, Sergeant Reese?” he’d asked, on one of the first nights Reese had spent studying at his estate._

_“Yeah.”_

_“Very good.  But did you also know that you can use both methods, one after the other, to further confuse anyone who intercepts a message?”_

_“No,” John admitted.  “I hadn’t thought of that.”_

_Finch got up and wrote rapidly on the blackboard behind him for a few minutes.  “Look here…  Now, tell me what you see.”_

_John concentrated harder than he ever had in C and C class, not wanting to seem foolish in front of the brilliant man he’d been sent to protect.  “Okay, there’s a pattern there...  That first part looks like the same cipher you were using before, Mr. Finch.  The words look intact, but they’re all in five-letter groups at the top.  Then in that lower part, they change to numbers in groups of three… in random order, no logic to it.  I see -- that’s where the type of cipher changes.”_

_“Yes!  Exactly, Sgt. Mars.  So you could, for instance, use a number of different techniques to disguise a message.  A transposition cipher at first, perhaps, then a substitution…”_

_“Brilliant,” John had smiled, meaning it._

John had been alone in his swelteringly hot cell for three days, awaiting military justice.  Yet thanks to his vivid, affectionate memories of Finch, he hadn’t really been alone at all.  He figured it was probably the second time that Harold had saved his life.

He’d still slept poorly though, when he’d allowed himself to sleep at all.  Not because of his imminent trial -- he hadn't cared about that.  But he hadn’t wanted to close his eyes, because whenever he did, he had nightmares where he heard Jessica calling out to him.  She'd  scream to him for help, but in his dreams, he couldn't move; and he'd wake thrashing around violently, with a scream trapped in his throat.

Finally, four days later, he found himself in a hastily convened field court martial.  A lot of things about the military were maddeningly slow, but he'd been relieved that military justice was pretty fucking fast by comparison… 

Major Dozer, of course, had testified against him there.  Quite enthusiastically, in fact.  Of course, he'd failed to mention refusing John's request for bereavement leave, or the insulting things he'd said about Jessica either.  And he'd lied, claiming that John had tried to kill him, and that if he hadn't managed to 'fight him off', he would have.

Reese had been bleakly amused that anyone who knew his record, as Dozer and the other officers at his trial certainly did, could possibly believe that.  He was far younger, stronger and faster than Dozer, and trained to kill in a hundred different ways.  Lethal as he was, if he'd truly meant to kill the Major, he'd be dead.

Reese didn’t bother to correct the Major’s damning version of events, though.  It wouldn’t have helped him, since no one would’ve believed his word against that of a superior officer anyway.  He didn’t even speak at his court martial.  It would’ve just held things up, and what could they do to him that would be worse than what'd already happened?  If worst came to worst and they tried to imprison him for his offenses, he’d just escape again.  Though the military had been his life, by then, it no longer mattered.  He'd lost his faith in the SAS, in the British Army, in everything.  He'd been betrayed too often -- lately by Dozer, but the earliest and worst of it had been by his own partner, Jerry Stills.  Then he'd lost Jessica, which gutted what was left of him.  He just wanted to get his court martial over with, so he could get back to England. 

Jessica was dead.  Dead and gone, because he’d left her.  _Because he’d failed to protect her_. He’d put duty before love, and paid the price for it.  No, Jessica had.   She would never realize her dreams now, would never have the home outside London or the children they'd wanted after the war.  He would never hold her in his arms again, would never touch her golden hair or see her bright eyes and sweet smile again. 

It seemed impossible, but it was true; and her absence was worse than any punishment, any torture anyone else could ever inflict on him.  A hideous sense of failure and loss was all he knew, a grief and shame so deep and vast it blotted out everything except his longing to see her grave.  It’d become an obsession, the only connection he had left to her.  The only thing he had left to do. 

After he got there and said his last goodbye to her, he meant to shoot himself.

Finally, the British Army got their pound of flesh.  In light of his formerly exemplary service, they said, because he'd been an extraordinary SAS agent whom they'd promoted, and for his past record of heroism, they went lightly on him and decided not to imprison him.  They sentenced him to a dishonorable discharge, took away his gun and cast him out instead. 

John was just relieved to finally be free and able to go back to England.  He didn't like losing his gun, though, so he stole a pistol from a British soldier again before leaving.  He figured the Army owed him that much.  Besides, he'd need a gun to carry out his plan to be with Jess again...

It took him a few weeks to get back to London.  Since he’d arranged for the SAS to send most of his pay to Jessica, and the auto parts factory where he'd worked undercover hadn't paid much, he'd had little money on hand.  So he'd worked his way over from North Africa as a laborer on an old freighter.  After a few days, he’d lost his bunk and was ordered to sleep in a little cubbyhole down by the engines, though, so his screams didn't wake the crew during the night. 

Reese hadn't cared.  It was warmer down there, and the steady noise of the engines soothed him, like white noise.  More importantly, when his nightmares woke him screaming there, there was no one to hear him.  Luckily for him, the ship was old and small, and not a prime target for U-boats; so they made it back to England safely.

Once there, he hitch-hiked his way to London and started looking for Jessica's grave.  He began with the cemeteries closest to where they'd lived in Camden.  In the second one, he'd run into the cemetery's groundskeeper on his way in.  The older man had kindly checked their records for him and directed him to a plot towards the back, where he finally found her.

He stood unsteadily in front of Jessica's grave for a long time, staring at it, unable to speak.  It was marked by a large, black granite headstone.  A beautiful dove had been carved at the top of it in breathtaking detail, with its wings spread in flight.  The inscription below it read:  _Jessica Mars_ , _Brave and beloved wife of John Mars.  Rest in peace_.  _1916 – 1943_.

John reached out to trace the carved inscription with trembling fingers, as the world reeled around him.  This was what he'd come back to England for, his last link to his wife.  Yet now that he was finally here, he could still hardly believe it was real -- that Jessica was really gone, dead and buried under this stone.  Surely if he went back to their little apartment or to her station at Charing Cross hospital, she'd still be there, smiling and waiting for him like she'd promised...

John shook his head, trying to reject that idea.  Tempting though it was, that way lay madness.  

_You lost your chance_ , a savage little voice snarled inside him.  _You fucking left her again, and the fucking Krauts bombed the hospital.  She's dead!_

He would never go back to their little apartment now.  He couldn’t stand to, when it would be so empty without her.  He still meant this to be the last place he'd ever go.  His stolen pistol was a comforting, familiar weight at the small of his back.  But he had one last thing to do, before he put it to his head and ended his torment. 

He stood there mute, stricken, his right hand clenched like a vise around the stems of the flowers he'd brought her, overcome with love and grief as he remembered it all:  everything about their life together.  Jess's bright smile, her kindness, her beautiful brown eyes, the first time he'd said ''I love you'' to her, the first time they'd made love...  The scent of her perfume, the tender touch of her gentle hands...  How happy he'd been the day they got married -- and every day after, when they’d been together.  He recalled  Jessica's love for so many  things:  raspberries, champagne, kids, cooking, laughter, music, singing and dancing.  How she’d adored the sound of Artie Shaw’s clarinet and Glen Miller’s trombone.  How she’d worked long hours without complaint, looking after her patients at the hospital, then come home to care for him with patience and skill as well, when he’d come home wounded from North Africa.  How much it had meant to him getting home to her, coming back to her.  How he’d fought for it, dreamed of it.  Jessica had been his strength, as well as his deepest happiness…

Then in the midst of that sweet cascade of memories, he recalled something that sliced through him cruelly.  He recalled Jessica kissing him tenderly through her tears when they'd parted that last time.  _“Stay safe, sweetheart,”_ she'd whispered.

Remembering her words, Reese froze.  It was the last thing she'd ever said to him -- ever _asked of him_.  He'd never thought of it before, but so far as he knew, that'd been Jessica’s last wish.  That he _live_.

_Oh God_ , he thought, bowing his head, half blind as grief and pain lanced through him.  _I can't kill myself, because Jess wouldn't have wanted that_!  _She wanted me to live.  She made me **promise** to_...

Horror colored his grief.  He hadn't been afraid in so long, hadn't thought anything could frighten him anymore.  He'd given up on life, had planned to end it all right here, to shoot himself so he could be with Jess again.  In the nightmare his life had become, it had been his only solace.

The realization that he couldn't do it now terrified him.  There could be no escape for him, no bullet to the head to end this searing pain.  No reunion with his wife beyond the grave.  He didn't even know who he was anymore, but he'd broken so many promises to her -- to be a good husband, to stay by her side, to _protect_ her -- he couldn't break that one too, the very last one he'd made to her.  Couldn't kill himself, when she'd asked him to stay alive for her.

But living without her, knowing he was responsible for her death, was an unbearable agony. 

“No,” he whispered helplessly.  “No, no, _no!”_

Now that he’d remembered, though, there was no getting around it -- no way to shove the genie back in the bottle.  Jess was gone, but he still had to honor the last promise he'd made to her.  Reese stared out numbly into the wasteland of his future.  A cold, bleak eternity without hope, without light, without Jessica. 

He found himself on his knees somehow, gasping and dry heaving.  The flowers he’d brought, that he’d picked for her along the way, had fallen from his shaking hands onto her grave. 

_You said you’d wait for me_ , _sweetheart_ , he thought, anguished.  _As long as it took..._   He longed to weep but found himself choking and gasping instead, his eyes dry and burning.  _You promised you’d wait, Jess, but you left me all alone._

But that was just self-pity talking, and he knew it.  He deserved to be alone, to suffer, because he'd left her all alone.  It was his fault that she’d died, all his fault.  He’d left her twice -- and like a fool, he'd chosen to do it.  Jessica hadn't chosen to leave him, hadn't fucking _decided_ to be blown up by a German bomb.  But she'd been all alone and unprotected because of him.

The person he'd loved more than anything in the world had died alone, in agony, because of him.

He doubled over, head hanging, hardly able to breathe at the thought of that.  The roaring noise he still heard sometimes filled his head again.  He felt like someone had piled boulders on his chest, and the weight was crushing him.  He gasped for air, his heart pounding, his chest heaving.  Hard as he tried, he couldn't seem to fill his lungs, couldn't quite catch his breath.  Despite his promise to her, he hoped that he would die. 

His head swam, his vision greying at the edges.  He'd had only the best intentions, had done his duty for England and for Jess -- how had it all gone so wrong?  He'd loved her so much, he'd left to do his part in keeping England safe for her.  Instead, by leaving, he'd left her vulnerable and gotten her killed. 

She'd refused to leave, to go to safety in America, partly because of him.  Because she'd wanted to be with him while she could.  In his grief, even that seemed wrong now.

_My love was poison.  It killed her.  If it hadn’t been for me, she might’ve left London during the Blitz.  God -- if you exist, why didn't you take me instead_?

He never knew how long he knelt there like that.  Part of him kept hoping he'd die.  Just strangle right there, useless waste of oxygen that he was, and end it all.  Why should he still be alive, when his wife and almost all his friends were dead?  It was beyond ridiculous, it was obscene.

But some grey, endless stretch of time went by, and when it was over, somehow Reese was still alive.  He could hear his own ragged gasps turning to deeper, more normal breathing, and feel the cold, rain-sodden grass under his knees.  It had soaked through his pantlegs, chilling him.  The noise in his head finally died away, leaving behind only silence and emptiness.  Guess I'm gonna live, he thought, and it was the worst joke ever.

When his breathing finally eased enough so that he could move again, he gathered up Jessica's flowers in unsteady hands, and laid them in a neat bunch on her grave.  It seemed important.  One last gift for her.  He doubted he'd find the strength to come back here, ever again. 

Then he straightened up a little.  Lifting his heavy, aching head, he made himself say what he'd come to say, hoping she'd somehow hear him. 

“I’m so sorry, Jessica, sweetheart,'' he rasped in his low, ruined voice.  He faltered for a second, wondering if she'd recognize his changed voice, wherever she was now.  Surely she had to be in heaven, if there was one.  She deserved to be, just like he deserved this kind of hell.  He forced himself to go on.  ''I love you so much, Jess.  I always will.  You're my heart, and... I never meant for this to happen.  I shouldn’t’ve left you again, I should’ve been here with you.  It was my job to protect you.  I failed, sweetheart, and I'm so -- I'm so sorry --”

He choked again, the boulders piling on his chest until the world went a little grey around the edges again.  He closed his eyes and hung on desperately until the strangling sensation passed.  But then he felt empty, hollow.  He didn't know what else to say.  It was too late now anyway.  Nothing he could do or say would put this right.

Finally, when he quit gasping for air, he opened his eyes again and stared at her gravestone one last time, blinking his tears away, memorizing it.  He wondered who’d paid for it and who’d thought of the inscription on it.  _Brave and beloved_ \-- that summed up Jessica, all right.  He wondered who’d asked the stonecutter to carve the beautiful bird on it, too.  One of the nurses Jess had worked with, probably.  One of her friends.  She'd had lots of those.  He should've seen to her funeral and to this headstone himself, but he'd been half dead, off his head with fever, and over a thousand miles away when she was killed. 

But like everything else now, the questions about her gravestone didn’t really matter much to Reese.  He was just dimly grateful that someone had taken time with it, had cared enough to make it beautiful when he couldn't.  Jessica deserved that.

_She deserved so much better than me_.

''G'bye, Jess,'' he croaked.  “I love you forever, sweetheart.''

Then he turned and stumbled away, through the neat rows of grey headstones, green lawn and big trees, back out to the lifeless, empty world his promise had bound him to. 

Some men would’ve been relieved to be able to go on living.  To Reese, it felt like he'd been cursed.  He had no family left, and his friends in the Army and his SAS unit had mostly all been killed in the war.  Stills might still be alive, but the fact that he'd disappeared long ago, right after most likely betraying Reese to the Gestapo, had proved that he was no friend.  If any other soldiers he knew had survived, he'd lost track of them. 

He hoped Harold Finch was still alive; but if he was, he didn't want to see him.  He couldn't stand to, disgraced and shattered as he was.  And he was angry with him, too.  He bore the burden of responsibility for Jessica's death, but Finch might be just a bit to blame, too.  He'd asked him to help Jessica while he was gone, after all, and Harold had promised he would; but Jessica had died.  Why hadn't Harold helped her?

Somewhere in the back of his mind, reason argued that her death wasn't Finch's fault.  John himself had been unable to convince his wife to quit working during the Blitz, or to go to America for her own safety; and Finch couldn't stop a bomb from falling.  But John's grief was so overwhelming that reason held little sway. 

Without Jess, his world was utterly empty.  But when he finally stumbled away from her grave, he told himself that he'd have to find a way to bear it, because he’d promised her he'd stay alive, and because he'd failed her.  He’d been raised Catholic, once upon a time.  He understood the concept of sin and penance all too well.

Still, he couldn’t bear to stay in England.  There was only so much punishment he could take, after all, without trying to eat his gun.

He buried the gun in the wet mud under a big tree at the graveyard so he wouldn't be tempted to use it again, wiped the mud off his hands on the lush, wet grass and left. 

He hitched a ride back to London, stopping there just long enough to empty out the small amount of money in his bank account.  Then he took a cab to the airport, and bought a plane ticket back to the U.S.  Like a wounded animal going to ground, he'd meant to go back to Washington state, where he'd been born.  But being cooped up on the flight back to the U.S. had bothered him.  Too many people in too small a space.  He'd felt hemmed in, uneasy, like he might lose control.  He’d made it as far as New York, then he’d craved fresh air and solitude. 

He got off the plane and wandered around a bit on foot, relieved at the unfamiliar surroundings.  Nothing there reminded him of Jessica.  Maybe he wouldn't go any further, he thought.  At least not that day. 

He’d stopped by a dark little neighborhood bar instead.  When a patron left, he’d heard the Inkspots' hit, ''I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire'' wafting through the opened door.  He'd always loved Bill Kenny's voice, so he'd followed it inside and, for lack of anything better to do, started drinking. 

When closing time came he staggered out, pleasantly numb, and somehow found a cheap hotel nearby to stay in.  One day turned into a week, then two.  He spent a bit of time walking around New York aimlessly, but spent most of his waking hours in bars.  Drinking blurred the sharp edges of his grief enough to keep him from buying another gun.  When his money ran out, he took odd jobs washing dishes or floors, or doing manual labor to pay for his booze.  But his drinking got heavier, and then it got so bad that no one would hire him anymore, even for menial jobs. 

But by then, the bottle mattered more.  He wasn't sure if it was keeping him alive or killing him by inches; and it didn't seem to matter.  He started living on the streets, and developed a new routine.  Wandering, scrounging food and clothes where he could, panhandling when he couldn't, sleeping in shelters, under bridges or in cardboard boxes when winter came, and drinking. 

Sometimes he thought about getting a job again, but knew he couldn't do it.  He didn't say much anymore, and hardly ever smiled.  He'd lost his charm, the easy way he'd once had with people.  He'd become wasted and forbidding, looked so fierce and grim that sometimes people he passed on the street gave him a wide berth, out of fear. 

Several times men came at him, separately or in groups, trying to steal what little he had now:  his bottle, his coat, his shoes.  They all regretted it.  Reese gained a reputation on the streets for being dangerous, and soon even the homeless and desperate left him alone.  He panhandled and when that failed, he found other, darker ways to earn enough money to pay for whiskey.  Recalling that underground fight clubs he'd been to in Morocco had paid well, he found some in New York that paid even better. 

He didn't have to fight often, to earn enough to buy cheap booze for weeks.  Although the larger men he went up against always sneered at him for being so skinny when he took off his shirt, they never laughed for long.  Due to his many years of experience at sizing up opponents, his vast knowledge of the vunerable spots in the body and his tremendous skill and speed at hand-to-hand combat, Reese always won his fights, and seldom got injured.  And when he did get hurt, he knew it was only what he deserved.  He told himself his aimless, violent, drunken existence was better than a bullet, but deep inside, he’d known he was heading for the same place.  Just taking the scenic route.

I fucked up everything else, Reese thought bitterly.  Too bad I couldn’t quite manage that one last thing for Jess:  living.

Images of her suddenly filled his head.  Jessica smiling as she danced with him to “In the Mood” in a London nightclub, her skirt swirling around her long, elegant legs.  Jessica beckoning to him on a rainy London street.  _Come on, John, we’ll be late!_

Grief stabbed him.  He’d been late, all right.  Too fucking late to save her.

He’d never even cried for her, had never broken down and sobbed properly, like he knew he should.  While he was spying for the SAS, he couldn't let himself go like that.  He’d still had to do his duty, and the Nazis had been looking for him.  Breaking down like that would’ve been impossible then.  He’d had to stay in control, play his part, keep his wits about him to survive.  Which was why he'd gone to Dozer for leave, so he could go back home and grieve for her properly.  But then Dozer had betrayed him and everything had gone to hell, and it seemed he'd lost the ability to cry.  Around the time of his court martial, he'd gone numb inside and started having terrible nightmares again. 

When he couldn't cry properly even at Jess's grave, he'd decided that he had no right to it, that it was a luxury he hadn't earned.  Tears were for husbands who didn't desert their wives, not for him.  He’d lost the right to cry for her, because he’d failed to protect her.

 

*

Hearing Finch say Jessica's name again after so long, brought it all back to him.  Everything Reese drank to try to forget had come back with a vengeance.  The pull of his memories was so strong that after they'd taken hold of him, it took him a while to resurface.

When he came back to the present again, he was dimly aware that Finch was still talking.  Chattering at him, his face intense.  But the roaring in his ears that sometimes troubled him when he thought of Jess had filled his head, whiting out most of what Finch was saying.  Unfortunately, not all of it. 

“Jessica,” he heard, “… couldn’t get home in time… save her... you don't mind -- paid for it… dove of peace… seemed appropriate --”

What the hell was Finch talking about? 

“a list... wouldn't be like...Jessica...offering you… chance to _be there in time_ \--”

His voice faded in and out, jabbing at Reese in sudden bursts of sound, interspersed with the noise in his head.  It was overwhelming.  He felt battered, tortured, like Finch was striking him every time he said his wife's name.  He could feel his heart pounding, and he was breathing hard.  He was still more than a little drunk, his self control was shot, and the old noise that’d almost stopped troubling him was suddenly back, louder than ever. 

It was all too much, too loud, too painful...  He could barely suppress a childish urge to clap his hands over his ears, to blot out the noise and the sound of Finch’s voice as well.  Looking down, he found his hands were clenched so tightly that his fingers were turning white.  Self loathing, grief and an old, desperate rage surged in him, mixing with the pain, threatening to overpower him.  He was alarmed to realize that he’d rocked forward slightly on his feet.  His training was kicking in, readying him for action.  He hadn’t felt this close to exploding since that day he’d lost it and gone AWOL in North Africa. 

_Stop!_ He wanted to shout at Finch to shut up about Jessica.  But his jaw was set so tightly that he couldn’t force any words out.  He stood there glaring at Finch, vibrating with rage and grief, but Finch just kept talking until he couldn’t take it anymore.  He finally moved, grabbing Finch and spinning him around, putting an arm across his throat from behind.  “Shut up!” he hissed, hauling Finch up against him. “Please, just _stop talking_!”

Finch finally did.  He gasped, his hands coming up to pull uselessly at Reese’s forearm.

Reese whirled them both around to face Finch's bodyguards.  One was so far away he’d broken into a run, but he was pulling his gun.  The other was closer, and had just pulled his gun when Reese spun Finch around.  “Don’t even think about it!” he ordered sharply, holding the guard's angry gaze while he dragged Finch backwards, one arm around his neck.

The big bodyguard paused, looked at Reese's arm across Finch’s throat, then raised his gun anyway, pointing it at Reese's head.  “Let him go or you're dead,” he growled as the second bodyguard pounded up behind him and leveled his gun, too.

John paused.  He still had Snow's loaded gun in his pocket, and had already calculated clear angles for kill shots on both guards.  His hand closed around the gun and tilted it upward inside his pocket, when Finch suddenly tensed in his grip, muttering, “Bloody hell!”

“ _Don’t shoot_!” Finch called out loudly, holding up a hand to warn off his bodyguards.  “ _That's an order_!”

Reese hesitated, surprised by two things.  The first was that Finch had sensed what he was about to do--clearly, his loud order not to shoot had been directed at him, as much as his guards.  The second was that he obviously hadn't gripped Finch very tightly, since he still had the breath to yell like that.  He'd merely restrained him, rather than putting him in a real chokehold.  But at least he’d finally managed to get him to shut up about Jessica; and that, along with the suddenly tense situation, helped to clear his mind. 

He'd assessed the situation with his usual speed.  He'd noticed from the start that Finch's guards were bored, incautious and could easily be taken by surprise.  _No imminent danger there_.  He'd also calculated that even after he grabbed Harold, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to disobey a direct order from him.  They'd stopped in their tracks when Finch ordered them to, like he'd figured they would.

“Yes sir.”  They lowered their weapons and though they still watched him warily, Reese sensed that as long as he didn't tighten his grip on Finch, the situation wouldn't escalate.  So he didn't shoot them.

Once things got quiet again, the terrible pressure building inside Reese eased.  Holding onto Finch in the same easy way he had been, he took some deep breaths, then several more, trying to calm his pounding heart and decide what to do.  Despite the tense situation, an oddly pleasant sensation stole through him.  It felt strangely good, hanging onto Finch like this.  It'd been a long time since Reese had gotten this close to a man without hitting and being hit; and longer still since he'd held someone close like this.  He'd forgotten how nice it could feel.  Harold was warm and solid, and his body helped block the cold breeze blowing off of the river.  He smelled really good, too; of wool, leather and a hint of the expensive cologne he'd always worn.  Familiar, comforting scents Reese associated with Harold and better days. 

Somehow, holding Harold helped to calm him.  He also felt his earlier possessiveness sweep over him again as he held onto Finch.  In some weird way, he almost felt like he was asserting his own claim over Harold -- like Finch was still his to protect, and his bodyguards had no right to come between them.  He knew that was ridiculous and it surprised him, but he felt it all the same.

Reese also hesitated to let go because he wanted to be sure Finch's bodyguards weren't going to try to rush him, the second he did.  He still had Snow's gun in his pocket, but he didn't want to have to kill anyone.  He'd just wanted to quiet Harold down for a bit and make him stop talking about Jessica, which hurt too much for him to bear.  So he just watched Finch's guards watch him for a minute, breathing deeply, waiting for his racing heart to calm and for his body to shed the tension that’d coiled through him in a potentially explosive spiral.

Finch didn’t move or speak.  He stopped trying to pull away, and just stood quietly in Reese's hold while the breeze ruffled their hair, as if he had all the time in the world to humor Reese, to wait for this crazy fit of his to end.

Finally he murmured, “John,” and patted at Reese's arm.  Given what Reese had just done, it was an odd sort of reaction -- his voice sounded quiet, almost tender, and his touch was more like a friendly little pat than a frightened plea to be released.  It seemed like Finch was just saying, _Come on now, John; it's time to let go_.

In return for that, and because Finch wasn't panicking and had ordered his guards not to shoot him, Reese loosened his hold on Finch even more.  He felt Finch draw a deep breath of relief, but he still didn't try to pull away.  Once Reese's breathing evened out and the noise in his head faded away completely, he finally let Finch go and stepped back.

Finch sighed with relief, then straightened up.  “All right, Jeffers, Anderson,” he said, in a dry, wintry tone that conveyed his displeasure clearly -- at least, it did to Reese.  “You can stand down now.”  He sharpened the order with a glare John had seen before.  Finch had never suffered fools gladly, and Reese figured he was probably already planning to replace his bodyguards. 

Apparently, Jeffers and Anderson didn’t understand that.  They looked relieved, and holstered their guns.  Reese snorted to himself.  He could’ve taken those guys out in a few seconds, and still have killed Finch easily if he’d wanted to.  But he watched Jeffers and Anderson carefully anyway, while they put away their guns.  Even stupid, incompetent people could still shoot, after all; and he wasn't sure if they were the type to try to save face with Finch by shooting him after things seemed to be all over. 

Fortunately for them, they weren't.

To Reese’s surprise, after he let him go, Finch still didn’t try to get away from him.  He just turned and gave him a long, searching look, as if trying to gauge his mood.

Reese could hardly blame him.  He shrugged a little.  “Sorry,” he grated finally, surprising himself.  He hadn’t said that to anyone in years.

Finch surprised him again by saying gently, “Me too.”  Then he waved a hand at Reese.  “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

Reese hesitated.  It crossed his mind that he should just leave, get away in case he lost control again.  He didn’t want to hurt Finch.  But he knew Finch had gotten the hint that mentioning his wife’s name wasn’t a good idea now; and nothing else Finch could say would upset him that much.  He still hadn't found out what Finch wanted either, so he nodded.

But before they started walking, Reese turned to make sure Finch’s bodyguards were following them more closely this time.  Anderson and Jeffers were strolling along quietly not far behind them, close enough to wade in if Reese threatened their boss again.  And this time, at least Jeffers had had the good sense to get his gun out, though he’d half hidden it in the folds of his overcoat.  It didn’t reassure Reese very much, but it was better than nothing.  He turned his head again and kept moving.

They just walked along slowly by the Hudson for awhile, not saying anything.  Reese found the silence peaceful, and let the motion take most of his remaining tension away, though he monitored the position of Finch's bodyguards behind them automatically, by listening to their footsteps.  Maybe Finch had somehow guessed that a little stroll would help calm him; or maybe he'd just needed some time to calm his own frazzled nerves, after Reese had grabbed him.  Reese didn’t care; he was just grateful for the quiet respite anyway.

When Finch finally started talking again, he spoke quietly.  “I’m sorry that I upset you, Mr. Reese.  That was not my intention.”

Reese looked away, remembering how Harold always retreated into formality when he was upset.  But he'd already apologized himself.  He didn't want more apologies from Finch, he wanted answers.  “What _was_ your intention?  Why’d you bring me here, Finch?”

Finch gave him a mildly exasperated look, and Reese realized that he must've missed something important, just now when he'd been too upset to catch what Finch was saying.  Finch hesitated, as if weighing something.  Then he said, “I have something important to tell you.  Will you listen this time?  Hear me out?”

Reese sighed to himself.  So -- Finch had been trying to tell him something that mattered, earlier; but he'd gotten so upset after hearing Jess's name that he'd missed it.  He owed Finch another listen.  Hell, he owed him much more than that.  Now that Finch was finally coming to the point, going to say what he wanted from him, Reese was intensely curious.  He nodded.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "4Fer" is a term used in America in the 1940's, to describe someone excused from active military service for health reasons, like having really poor eyesight or flat feet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that there is mention of torture in this chapter, though it happens off-stage. But if you'd rather skip it, just read the last half of the chapter.
> 
> "SOE" is the acronym for "Special Operations Executive", the top secret British wartime department that was formed to conduct espionage, sabotage and reconnaissance in occupied Europe (and later, in occupied Southeast Asia also) against the Axis powers, and to aid local resistance movements.

“Thank you.”  Finch stared out over the river for a minute, squinting a little against the sunlight that sparkled on the water.  Then he turned to face Reese.

“I have a list,” he began quietly.  “Names of high-ranking Nazis who escaped Germany and other satellite countries they’d conquered, before the war ended.  S.S. officers who were responsible for murdering thousands, or in some cases, hundreds of thousands of men, women and children.  Now that the war is over, the governments of the U.S., Britain and Europe aren’t interested in pursuing them -- not in a vigorous, meaningful fashion, anyway.”

John frowned at him in surprise.  “What about the Nuremberg trials?” he asked.  

“It's a start,” Finch shrugged, “but only that.  They’ve caught a few of Hitler's inner circle and some high-ranking officers.  Perhaps two hundred at most.  But many more Nazis escaped.  I estimate that somewhere between twenty to forty thousand of them emigrated to South America alone.  Perhaps more.  The true figure could be as high as a hundred thousand.”

_Fuck_.  Reese was stunned.  He'd had no idea so many Nazis had gotten away; or that no one was looking for them, either. 

“Yes, the number of escaped Nazis is huge, but the Allies naturally aren’t making that knowledge public.  So the Nuremburg trials, necessary though they are, aren't enough.  They're meant to convince the public that the problem of dealing with war criminals has been taken care of, when the truth is, those few trials don't begin to address the real scope of the problem.  In reality, the Allies aren’t actively pursuing the escapees, because tracking such large numbers of dangerous men down would be both time-consuming and expensive, and cause political difficulties as well, particularly with South America.  Dealing with vast numbers of German P.O.W's toward the end of the war strained their resources already.  They want to devote their manpower and capital elsewhere now, not spend them hunting down war criminals.  Basically, to save time and money, they've decided that the Nazis they haven’t already identified and caught are ‘irrelevant’.”  

Finch’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened.  “I disagree.  These men profited from dispossessing and stealing from Jews, intellectuals and others whom they imprisoned, starved, raped, tortured and murdered.  They are war criminals who committed unspeakable atrocities, and they must be made to pay for their crimes.  Many have settled in South America, where there are large German colonies in Argentina, Chile and Peru.  Some are protected by neo-Nazis or Fascists who either run those countries, or hold positions of great power there.  Some Nazis fled to Brazil, Uruguay and Paraguay as well.  Using false names, many of them are now living free and unhindered in South America.  A few are so brazen, they haven't even bothered to change their names at all.  Some are even leading lives of luxury there.  All of them believe they’ve escaped justice.  I intend to prove them wrong.” 

Reese frowned, wary of where this was leading.  Of all the possible things Finch could’ve said to him, this speech about Nazi escapees was the last thing he’d expected.  And Harold's hint that he meant to do something about the dangerous situation sounded decidedly ominous. 

“I assure you, this is true,” Finch insisted, as if he’d mistaken John’s stunned silence for disbelief.  He added, “The Allies all claim to be too busy to give the matter any serious attention.  Oh, the Americans and British have made a few stabs at it.  The Nuremberg trials, as you said.  Also WCIU and other little bureaucratic messes, but they're woefully understaffed and completely underfunded.  Given the enormity of the problem, their efforts amount to mere gestures.  I'll be surprised if they come up with enough evidence for even a few trials.  Meanwhile, SS officers and death camp guards by the thousands have slipped out of their P.O.W. camps and through their fingers, using assumed names and secret networks set up to help them.  I’ve contacted the U.S., British, French and Austrian governments personally and repeatedly about this issue.  The American Jewish Council, as well.  But even they have refused to help.  I have the letters to prove it, if you’d care to see them.”

Reese shook his head.  “S’okay.  I believe you.”  The numbers of escapees surprised him, but the fact that Finch had protested it didn't.  He was Jewish and the victim of an attempted S.S. assassination himself, after all.  He didn’t doubt what Finch was telling him about ex-Nazis finding safe haven in South America, either.  He still read discarded newspapers he scrounged from trashcans, and he'd seen rumours in them about it.  Juan Perón, Argentina's dictator, was a ruthless, anti-Semitic Fascist who'd trained under Mussolini.  It made sense that he and others like him would give Nazis shelter.

Reese could also believe that the Allies and their friends weren’t interested in going after escaped Nazis, now that the war was over.  There was so much to be done – rebuilding, getting commerce going again, and just cleaning up all the messes the war had left behind.  Plus, with millions dead, British and European cities devastated by bombings and combat and bereaved families everywhere, mostly everyone in Britain, Europe and America was sick of war.  Making a massive effort to pursue escaped Nazis would’ve been more than expensive and time-consuming, it would’ve probably been politically unpopular as well.  Now that the war was over, a lot of people just wanted to forget about it and move on, callous though that seemed. 

But Reese also guessed shrewdly that given what Finch had told him, there had to be more to the vast numbers of escapees than mere luck.  If that many Nazis had gotten away, then as Finch had said, they must've had help.  Though the 'secret networks' he'd mentioned which had helped them escape were probably German, Reese could guess where at least some of the rest of their aid had come from.  Facists in Spain and Italy, most likely; and sadly, maybe some from U.S. intelligence, too.  Given what he now knew about the shady world of spying, and the British and Americans' fear of Russia, he wouldn’t be surprised if most of the Allies’ intelligence services were actually taking formerly high-level Nazis in now.  Sheltering them to pump them for information about the Russians, or God only knew what.  Though Russia had been their ally, now that the war was over, it was shaping up to be America’s main enemy. 

The problem was, America's intelligence service was still new, and probably knew precious little about the Soviets.  Reese had heard that many Nazi officers had studied Russia, and some had even fought on the Russian front.  It was possible that the OSS might consider their knowledge valuable enough to make deals with such devils to get it.

That didn't mean he agreed with them.  The very thought of Nazi officers being rescued and sheltered by intelligence agencies, American or otherwise, made Reese sick.  The fucking Nazis had tortured him, and killed Jessica and so many of the good guys he’d known in the Army and SAS.  Millions of soldiers, from America to Russia, had died at their hands;  not to mention Jews and others they’d thought were ‘undesirable’.  They’d killed civilians all over Europe too -- men, women and even children -- without mercy, and shoved them into mass graves, or kept them in brutal camps where they were starved, tortured, worked to death or murdered outright.  The thought of monsters like that finding shelter anywhere filled him with anger; and the idea of anyone trusting such psychopaths to give them reliable intelligence seemed ridiculous, not to mention dangerous to him.

Reese still didn’t see where Finch was going with this, though.  He was evidently upset about war criminals escaping justice, and he’d been protesting it and writing letters to highly placed people about it.  Reese remembered that Finch had written scores of letters when he was guarding him, years ago.  He’d seen some of the addresses on those letters and realized then, that Finch knew people all over the world. 

But what did all of that have to do with him?  Finch wouldn’t have gone to the trouble to fly over here and track him down, just to tell him about some letter-writing campaign.  If he’d been anyone else, Reese would’ve thought – but no. 

Still, a terrible suspicion crossed his mind.  _No, he can't be planning to_ \--

As if he’d read his mind, Finch took a limping step towards him.  His eyes were suddenly piercing, urgent, boring into Reese.  He could feel Finch’s intensity from where he stood.  “I’ve decided that since the authorities won’t act, _I will_.  The crimes of these monsters cannot be forgotten or forgiven.  They cannot be allowed to live freely either, where they will surely harm others.  I intend to hunt some of these men down, Mr. Reese.  As many as I can.  And I could use your help in the task.”

_Jesus_.  **_That's_** _what he wants?_   Reese stared at Finch in disbelief, stunned on so many levels, he didn’t know where to start. 

His first coherent thought was, _Now_ I understand why he's got two bodyguards.  The Germans already tried to kill him, for being Jewish and cracking their secret military codes during the war.  Now he's pressuring governments to pursue escaped Nazis...  Jesus.  He _should_ have protection.

Reese felt both weirdly relieved and alarmed at finally learning the truth.  Dangerous though Finch's plan was, at least he wasn't up to anything sinister or self-serving.  On the contrary -- he was still an ethical man, and still trying to help and protect others. 

That said, the way he'd chosen to do it still seemed...off.

Hell, it was _crazy_.  Reese couldn't help but wonder if Harold had lost his mind -- cracked from the terrible pressure he'd worked under for years, during the war.  The Harold Finch he’d known had been a quiet, gentle man who didn’t believe in violence.  When he wasn’t working or teaching John codes, he’d either been puttering in his lab or had his nose buried in a book.  He hadn't even dated much, and he'd never touched a gun until Reese had taught him to shoot.  Besides, Finch was small, slight and already injured.  He wasn't exactly up to the task of becoming a vigilante.  But now Finch wanted to recruit him for some sort of private crusade against escaped _Nazis_? 

I must be dreaming, Reese thought.  He blinked several times to test the theory, but Finch still stood there, a dark, solid, unwavering figure against the brightness of the water.  Indisputably real.

Still, John could hardly believe what Finch had just told him, or what he wanted to _do_.  That a good man wanted to get involved with vigilante killing was bad enough, but the fact that Finch wanted to hire _him_ to do it was just – unbelievable.  Reese wasn’t a soldier anymore.  Finch knew damn well that he’d been court-martialed, discharged, ruined, disgraced.  No one wanted him now, not even for his skills.  No one wanted to have anything to _do_ with him.  He’d become a homeless bum, a drunk who fought in illegal, no-holds-barred underground bouts for money. 

Yet Finch, one of the most brilliant English scientists, the one most directly responsible for building the machine that cracked the German Enigma machine’s secret codes, the man who'd helped the Allies win the war, wanted to offer _him_ a job?  A job hunting _Nazis_?  Wanted him so badly that he’d crossed an ocean to find him and make the offer, when Finch had enough money to hire the very best agents in the world?

It was _nuts._

It seemed so surreal that for a minute, Reese wondered if he’d finally drunk enough to start hallucinating.  But no.  Even if he had, he’d never dream up something as crazy as this; and certainly not involving Finch, who he hadn’t seen for years.  His bad dreams were different, were usually about him being punished -- either for losing Jess, or for the men he’d killed in the war. 

“You’re serious?” he asked. 

Finch’s answer was wry.  “Have you ever known me to be otherwise?”

  Reese shook his head.  But all he could think was, he must've gone crazy since I left.  Finch was Jewish, so he could understand him wanting revenge for what the Nazis had done to his people, but it just wasn’t feasible.  Not like that. 

John knew what Finch’s plan would require; and brilliant though Finch was, he figured the little scientist didn’t really understand what he’d be getting into.  He had no authority for such a venture, for one thing.  He wasn’t a cop, or part of British intelligence anymore either.  At least, Reese guessed shrewdly that Finch didn’t work for MI6 anymore -- because they’d never sanction an operation like this, with an amateur in charge. 

Sure, Finch was brilliant, a scientist, engineer and inventor, an expert with codes and ciphers who'd been in the intelligence business for years, but he'd never been a field agent.  Which meant that the second he or whoever he hired to help him got into trouble pursuing Nazis -- and given Finch's lack of actual field experience, that was inevitable -- he’d get arrested. 

That’s if he was _lucky_.  If he wasn't, he'd get captured himself by some ruthless S.S. bastard -- and Reese didn't even like to think about that.  Because the men Finch was proposing to go after were trained, experienced, hardened torturers and murderers.  worse monsters than Reese himself, because they hadn’t just killed soldiers in battle, or even assassinated enemies for their country.  They were sadists who killed civilians, who murdered women and children and even babies by the thousands and _liked_ it.  They got off on torture, too.  Whereas Reese doubted that Harold had ever even held a gun again, after he'd been sent back to North Africa. 

Finch just wasn't suited for the grim, incredibly dangerous kind of work he was proposing.  Reese knew that better than anyone, since he was an expert at it.  If Finch went through with this crazy scheme and set himself up as some kind of vigilante Nazi hunter, he was going to wind up in jail or get killed -- or worse. 

Reese didn’t want to be involved in that.  Though he hadn’t seen him for years, Finch had been – still was – his friend, and he couldn't bear another loss.  Besides, he hadn’t saved Finch from Nazis years ago, only to have him get killed actively _pursuing_ them later.  His life had taken some strange twists and turns already, but that would just be too blackly ironic.  Not to mention a terrible waste of a remarkable man.  Finally, Reese shook his head.  “Sorry.  I’m not interested.”

He expected Finch to react badly.  He might be delusional, but he seemed pretty passionate about his idea, all the same.

But Finch just cocked his head and asked quietly, “Are you sure, John?  I need someone with your talents, someone with the skills to intervene…”

_The skills to kill, you mean,_ Reese thought wryly _._  Though the fact that Harold had just called him “John” again, told him how much this crazy plan meant to Finch.  Was it possible, Reese wondered, that he’d really come all the way to New York just to recruit him for it?  Or did Finch have other prospects lined up here, if he said no?  For Harold’s sake, he hoped not.  Though he wondered if he'd hired his current bodyguards with that in mind.  Again, he hoped not, because they clearly weren't good enough for such a scheme.  Still, he almost felt bad about turning him down.

  Reese shook his head again and turned away.  He had enough blood on his hands already.  Despite his talent for hand-to-hand fighting, he’d never really liked killing, and he didn’t do it anymore.  He didn’t want to get involved in something that might lead to Harold Finch’s death, either. 

Besides, Finch’s mention of Jessica had gotten to him, in a way nothing had for a very long time.  He’d come within a hair of hurting him, just to make him shut up about her.  He felt guilty about that, more ashamed than he'd felt about anything in years.  Finch was small, injured and had never been trained to fight. He posed no threat to Reese that way at all.  Hell, he’d once been the person John had been duty-bound to _protect;_ yet he'd grabbed him, ordered him to shut up, and caused a confrontation with his bodyguards.   It'd been stupid, shameful, embarrassing.  Finch was also probably the only friend he had left in the world, but he’d almost hurt him…

Yet one more reason why John should say no.  Somewhere in his first months in North Africa, he thought maybe he’d gone crazy.  It happened to lots of guys in the desert, “out in the blue” as they’d called it.  It happened to plenty of guys in combat, too; and the fighting there had been ferocious.  Maybe he hadn't gone home quite sane.  That would explain why he'd been crazy enough to join the SAS and leave Jess a second time.  And after she died, well -- he thought he'd probably lost what little grasp he'd still had left on sanity. 

Maybe Finch had gone a bit nuts during the war, too.  Reese wasn’t entirely sure.  It  wasn’t like Harold to try to hire someone to kill people, even if it was for a good cause.  In any case, Reese was sure that _he_ wasn’t fit to be around normal people anymore, not even friends.  Maybe especially not them.

“Yeah.  I’m sure.  I’m done here,” he muttered, looking away.  Even if Harold had gone crazy and tried to hire him as an assassin, he was still uncomfortable with disappointing him.  Finch had come a long way to see him, about something that meant a lot to him.  Finch still _trusted_ him, something no one else on earth did anymore.  Finch still saw him as a man, as a soldier; as someone worthy of respect.  He wouldn't have come all this way to ask for his help, otherwise.

And how had he repaid that trust?  He'd lost control, grabbed Harold and threatened him.  That hurt somewhere down deep, in a place Reese thought had long since gone numb.  The fact that he'd been drinking earlier didn't excuse his actions, either.

But it was the only cure he had anymore, for his pain.

_I need a drink now_ , he thought, shaken.

He walked back to Finch’s fancy Rolls in silence, trying to hide how messed up he was, and how many deep, painful emotions this unexpected meeting had churned up inside of him.  He felt Finch’s eyes on him the whole way.  When he neared the car, he wondered if Finch’s bodyguards would try to force him to stay and listen further to their boss.  If they tried, he’d knock them on their asses, he thought darkly.  He was in no mood to be fucked with any further.

Maybe Finch sent his men some sort of signal behind his back, to let him go.  Or maybe since he'd grabbed their boss and made them look like fools, they were just happy to get him away from Finch.  Reese didn't know.  But once he neared them, Finch’s bodyguards just opened the car door for him again, and silently drove him back to where they’d picked him up.

At the shelter, John climbed out and watched Finch’s Rolls pull away again with a tangled sense of relief and regret.  He’d settled down some on the long ride back.  Still, what a strange meeting that’d been.  He shook his head, just thinking about Harold Finch trying to hunt and kill Nazis.  It was worse than just a dangerous idea, it was fucking crazy.  Now that he’d turned it down, he hoped Finch would give up on it. 

For a moment, he thought fondly, wistfully of Finch.  He remembered the great conversations they used to have, when they played chess at his estate late at night.  Harold had the sharpest, most far-ranging mind of any man he’d ever met.  He’d never found a topic of conversation that Finch couldn’t speak about intelligently.  Literature, science, history, politics, art, music...  The depth and breadth of the scientist’s knowledge had awed and delighted him. 

And back then, there had been something about him that Finch had liked, too.  He remembered Harold’s surprise, when he’d found the code Reese had started to decipher on his blackboard shortly after they'd met.  When John had proved an apt pupil, Finch had set aside some time almost every night, to teach him codes and ciphers.  He'd even written coded messages on that chalkboard in his office and set it up behind his desk, so John could see them and puzzle them out while he watched over Finch all day...  It'd been a simple, elegant solution to the boredom involved in a bodyguard's job.  But more than that, it had been a way to further part of his covert ops training, a way for Harold to help him survive the war.  It'd been John's first look at the man behind the curtain, so to speak; at Harold's kindness, his good heart. 

Those warm memories just made Reese regret his drunken loss of control all the more.  He’d loved the time he'd spent with Finch, loved protecting him, learning from him, and becoming his friend.  He'd missed Harold terribly when he'd gone back to North Africa and begun his dangerous, lonely existence as a covert agent.  Those quiet nights over Finch's chessboard, and his last nights with Jessica before the SAS had sent him back there, were some of the last good times Reese could remember now. 

He was still glad he’d saved Finch’s life, that day those S.S. agents had tried to assassinate him.  His best friends and so many of the good men he’d served with had been killed, despite Reese's best efforts.  But at least he’d saved Finch.  Harold was still alive.  It was one of the few things Reese still felt proud of. 

Finch had returned the favor, too, though he probably wasn’t aware of it.  Some of the codes he’d taught him had saved Reese’s life in Casablanca.  He'd taught them to the resistance fighters he'd worked with, and even though the Germans had once stumbled on one of his coded messages, they hadn't been able to decode it, which had saved Reese and everyone he'd worked with.

The dictionary cipher he’d learned from Harold had protected all of them as well.  The Gestapo had never found the notebook where he’d kept all the information on his contacts.  But John had always thought that even if they had, they wouldn’t have been able to make heads or tails out of the information he’d enciphered there – thanks to Harold.

_Finch said he knew everything about me…  I wonder if he knows that?_   Reese doubted it.  He’d never told anyone those things.  He wished that he’d thought to tell Finch, though.  He deserved to know. 

Another old memory came back to him then.  Something he’d said to Finch when they'd said goodbye at Bletchley.   

_“Let's have a drink when we finally beat the bastards, Harold.”_

_“Yes.  I'll drink to that, John.”_

If only he hadn’t mentioned Jessica, and if I hadn't lost control and grabbed him, maybe we could’ve had that drink, he thought sadly.  Raised a glass for old times’ sake.  I'd've liked that...

_Don’t kid yourself,_ his nasty little inner voice sneered _.  Even if he had come here for friendship's sake, he wouldn’t want to have a drink with you.  Not anymore_.

The words stung, made John feel cynical.  He told himself that at least he knew what Finch had wanted now.  He hadn’t come to New York for a reunion, or because they'd been friends, and certainly not to have that celebratory toast they'd once promised each other if the Allies won.  Finch just wanted to hire him to kill people, like the British Army once had.  At least, he’d wanted to hire the Sgt. Mars he’d once known. 

Crazy though Finch’s plan might be, at least that part of it made sense to Reese now.  But Finch must not have known as much about him as he’d claimed to, or else maybe he hadn’t believed what his p.i.'s must've told him about his life now.  Because he’d come looking for Sgt. John Mars the soldier – not Reese, the worthless drunk.

Still…  He felt uneasy that both Mark Snow and Harold Finch had found him on the same day.  Though Finch’s motives were now clear, he still wasn’t sure what Snow’s were--beyond wanting to beat the shit out of him, that is.  But if their meeting hadn’t been accidental, and if Snow was working for someone else, that could be a problem.  Reese wasn't clinging to life anymore, but he wasn't going to let a dick like Snow have a part in ending him, either. 

As soon as he could, he’d have to change his appearance.  Shave off his beard and mustache, so he'd look less like the bearded bum that anyone looking for John Reese would now be hunting.  He'd have to track Snow down, too, and find out just what he'd been up to, and if someone else had hired him...

Reese sighed.  His life had suddenly developed unexpected complications.  He squinted up at the sun.  It was late afternoon now.  Too late to deal with Snow, and too late to find a bed at the shelter Finch's bodyguards had returned him to, either.  He knew from experience how early its beds were taken, once the weather turned cold.  Besides -- after his meeting with Finch, he craved a little liquid oblivion.  Time for plan B.  He turned his coat collar up against the wind, thinking. 

There was a liquor store within a few miles, and once he’d picked up a bottle of rye, he could probably cadge a bed at a flophouse not far from there.  It was a dive, but the manager liked him, and often gave him a free bed for the night if Reese was in the neighborhood. 

John had once saved a prostitute that the manager was fond of there.  He hadn’t done much -- just disarmed a john who was about to cut her throat, punched the guy’s lights out, and taken his knife away for good measure.  But the girl was only fifteen, and the manager had a soft spot for her.  Saving her seemed to have earned Reese a gold star, as far as he was concerned. 

Reese wasn’t above using that to get a real bed to sleep in now and then.  Tonight, he could use a room to himself.  It would give him some privacy, so he could cut his hair and shave his beard without anyone seeing him.  He could take a shower, too...

He thought of Joan.  She’d miss him, he knew.  She was homeless too, a frequent visitor at the same shelters he went to, and if they were too crowded and they failed to get in one at night when the weather turned cold, she often let him share her cardboard box instead.  It got a bit crowded with the two of them in it, but Joan didn’t mind.  They didn’t have sex, it wasn't like that.  They were just friendly.  Well – Joan considered Reese her friend.  She said she liked having him around, said he made her feel safe.  And he'd protected her a time or two, when other  homeless men menaced her or tried to steal her meager possessions.

Reese had never told her so, but his reasons for protecting Joan were different than what she imagined.  He did it because she’d taught him the ropes, helped him learn how to survive being homeless in New York.  He'd owed her a debt, so he'd repaid it.  Nothing more.  Though Joan had been good to him, he wasn’t sure he was capable of real friendship now.  He hadn’t really felt much of anything but grief and anger, since he’d walked away from Jessica’s grave.

_Except when I saw Harold_...

Reese pushed the thought away.  Though he protected Joan as much as he could, even now, she still hadn’t learned the truth.  The one he’d learned in North Africa.  The one his traitorous partner, the Gestapo, and finally even the British Army he’d forsaken Jessica for, had all beaten into him.

_We’re all alone, and no one is coming to save us_.

Not even billionaires or former friends.  No one.

Reese started walking.

 

******************************************************************

 

Finch watched the man who now called himself John Reese walk away from him silently, his thin coat flapping in the cold breeze from the river.

Reese obviously thought their reunion was over, that his refusal to help with Finch's project meant the end of their involvement.

But Finch had no intention of letting either of his plans go at that.  Not his plan to save John Reese, or to bring former Nazis to justice either.  Both projects were far too important to him.

He would never have achieved the position he'd held with MI6, if he hadn't been very adept at advance planning.  He'd always thought in terms of probabilities rather than certainties, and had contingency plans in place for various outcomes.  He had a back-up plan ready, in case Reese turned him down at first.

After his bodyguards drove Reese away, Harold walked quietly back to the silver Rolls Royce that waited nearby for him, with another of his chauffeurs at the wheel.  He hoped that Reese wouldn’t force him to take drastic measures to convince him to join in his plan to hunt Nazis.  Regardless, Finch would do what he had to.  He didn’t intend to let Reese slip away without trying again to urge John to join him in his project. 

If his second attempt failed, then he'd let the idea go and accept John's refusal.  He'd stay in New York long enough to make sure Reese got food, clothing, decent housing and whatever kind of job he wanted, so he could get back on his feet.  Finch knew lots of people in New York, and he knew how extraordinarily bright and capable John was.  He'd get him some counseling if he needed or wanted it, whatever it took to get John off of the streets and improve his life.  Then, once he was sure that he'd gotten his life back on track, Finch would carry on with his dangerous plans himself.  Alone if necessary.

Finch swallowed.  He very much hoped it wouldn't come to that, but he'd only have one more chance to try to solicit Reese’s help.  Despite his need for Reese's expertise, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t press the point any further than that.  He owed John far too much to harass him. 

Just one more chance.  This time, he had to succeed.  Of course, he'd planned for this.  He had two more contingency plans, in fact; but he really hoped he wouldn't have to use the second one...

His driver got out and held the back door of the silver Rolls open for him.  Harold climbed inside and said, “My office please, Mr. Richards.”

“Yes, sir.”

The car swung smoothly away from the curb, and Finch leaned back to rub his aching hip with a sigh.  He stared out the window, but his mind was filled with images of John Reese:  gaunt, grim and red-eyed, wearing filthy old clothes.  Those images clashed violently with the memories he had of Sgt. John Mars:  strong, proud, graceful, smiling and strikingly handsome in the neat dark suits and ties he'd always worn.  Though he'd just spoken to Mr. Reese, the reality of who John Mars had become differed so much from his memories, it was still hard to believe they were the same man. 

Finch closed his eyes, praying that Sgt. Mars still existed somewhere inside the grim, drunken shell that was John Reese.  The only time he'd seen a hint of him was when he'd mentioned Jessica Mars.  He'd tried to explain that he hadn't forgotten his promise to help her, that he'd done what he could when she died, and tried to explain his plan to hunt Nazis to him as well. 

But before he could finish, Reese had grabbed him, spun him around, pressed his arm to his throat, and gruffly ordered him to shut up.  Though that obviously wasn't the kind of reaction Harold had hoped for, it'd been fascinating all the same, because it confirmed his suspicion that Mars was still  mourning his wife.  He'd then startled him further by rasping desperately, “ _Please_ , just stop talking!” as if Harold's words were hurting him unbearably. 

That surprise had been followed by more; because despite the fact that he was far too thin and he'd been drinking, Reese's strength and speed had still been astonishing.  He'd taken Harold and his bodyguards completely by surprise.  It didn't say much for them, but boded well for the success of Finch's project, if he could convince John to join him in it. 

Also, though Reese had been furious and his lean arms had held Finch tightly, his application of force had been amazingly precise.  Harold had felt the terrific strength in Reese's thin frame, and realized that he was still strong enough to break his neck like a twig.  He should've been scared, but like that day years before when Mars had killed two men to save him, he'd just thought, I don't believe that John would ever hurt me.  Reese could’ve killed him instantly, but he'd barely even bruised him.  Instead, he'd managed to immobilize Harold without hurting him at all; and he'd even apologized afterwards.  In that, Finch also saw traces of his old friend, John Mars. 

Finch also saw him reflected in Reese's grief.  He remembered how he'd heard the female clerks and secretaries at Bletchley complaining that for all his smiles and easy charm, they could never get John to do more than flirt with them.   Handsome though he was, he'd always been loyal to his wife.  His desperate reaction when Harold had spoken of her funeral, plus the fact that he still wore his wedding ring long after her death, proved that Reese's heart was still as faithful as ever.  Though she'd been killed several years ago, clearly, Jessica Mars still owned it.    Finch felt a twinge of mingled sadness and jealousy at that realization, but pushed it aside, knowing how petty and inappropriate it was.

He had to focus on his mission instead.  The project he was about to begin.  The question was, could Finch harness Reese's lethal skills, win some of his loyalty again, if he could convince him that his cause was necessary and just?

I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow morning, he thought.  He touched his side where Reese had grabbed him, and tried not to worry.

 

*

When Reese woke early the next morning, he wasn't as hungover as usual; he hadn't drunk much the night before.  He'd been busy shaving his moustache off, and cutting off his beard.  Then he'd showered, and even given himself a rough but serviceable haircut, so he could evade pursuit if anyone else was looking for him.  When he'd looked in the mirror afterwards, he'd hardly recognized himself. 

That was nothing new.  But as he lay in the cheap bed he'd been given for the night, blinking against the light and trying to think of a reason to go on, as he did every morning, he saw something that _was_ new. 

A small white envelopelay on the dirty floor, near the door.  Someone must've slipped it under his door after he'd drifted off to sleep.

He'd drunk just enough to get sleepy last night.  So he remembered what'd happened yesterday, and it was pretty easy to deduce who'd left the envelope.  It wasn't Snow's style.  If Mark had managed to find him again, his calling card would've been another attempted assault.  So that left Finch.

Reese laid there staring sullenly at the envelope, wondering how Finch had found him.  Then again, he'd already figured out that Finch had had someone tracking him lately.  He'd been drinking so much the past few years, it wouldn't have been hard for someone to tail him without him noticing -- or to follow him after he'd met with Finch last night, either.  He'd been upset.  Distracted.  Or maybe whoever Finch had following him already knew that he sometimes stayed here, and had just bribed the desk clerk to call him when he showed up.

In any case, Reese told himself he didn’t give a rat's ass what was in the envelope.  He was just going to ignore it.

Five minutes later, he finally got up with a curse and padded over to pick it up.  It was small, but felt surprisingly heavy in his hands.  It looked like it held an invitation.  Reese shook his head wryly.  Of course, Finch would send an invitation printed on heavy, expensive paper.  If that’s what this was…

He ripped it open.

Inside, on a piece of stiff, cream-colored stationery, was written:

_Please do me the honor of coming to have breakfast with me John, for old time’s sake.  You did promise to have a drink with me once we beat the bastards, after all.  And we did.  So I’ll send my car to pick you up at 9:00 a.m tomorrow.  Please come, my friend._

_Yours truly, Harold Finch_.

Reese recognized Finch’s handwriting, his neat, distinctive penmanship.  He snorted to himself at the note.  It was only five lines long, yet it managed to mingle courtesy, manipulation disguised as reminiscence, a plea and presumption that he would comply with it.  It was a lot to cram into five lines, but that was classic Finch.  It also had yesterday's date, so Finch wanted to meet in just a few hours.

“I don’t _eat_ breakfast,” Reese muttered sullenly, as if that was what really mattered.

He couldn’t seem to throw the invitation away, though, like he knew he should.  He kept staring down at it and deep inside, he knew why.  He didn’t give a damn about breakfast…

But he had promised to drink a toast with Harold when they beat the Nazis, and he kept his promises.  Wasn’t that what he’d told Harold, that day in the woods?  He remembered that moment vividly.  Wasn’t that how he used to be?  _Who_ he used to be?

_That’s just a flimsy excuse.  The truth is, you’ll go just because you want to see Finch again_ , sneered the dark little voice in his head.  And as usual, it was right. 

_Damn it._

_*_

Harold sat nervously by a large table in an elegant hotel room at the Waldorf Astoria, facing the door.  His hands were folded neatly in his lap, but he stole nervous glances at the clock on the wall to his right.  

_Two minutes to 9:00 a.m_.  Finch closed his eyes, trying to steady himself, then quickly opened them again.  Watching the door had become a kind of compulsion for him.  He wondered if Reese would come through it in the next two minutes, or if he'd be late, or if he'd show up at all. 

The large table near him was covered with a heavy, snowy white tablecloth, and set with an array of delicious food.  Finch had spared no expense, trying to provide a breakfast that would please Reese.  There was an elegant silver tea service, a large carafe of coffee, and several kinds of fruit juice.  He thought wryly that a table  with a variety of whiskeys on it might've been far more effective in recruiting Reese to his cause.  But even though he'd mentioned their old pact to raise a glass to the Nazis' defeat in his invitation, he wouldn't offer John alcohol now that he knew he'd developed a problem with it.  His old friend had been betrayed too often as it was.

He would have to try different methods of persuading John to work with him.  To that end, the table also bore myriad silver serving trays filled with food.  There were light, creamy scrambled eggs, poached and fried eggs, sausages, bacon, sliced ham, french toast, thick slices of fresh bread and creamy butter, biscuits, three flavors of scones, fresh strawberries and cream, raspberries, blackberries, pears, sliced cheeses, cubed melons, and delicately sliced fillets of salmon and halibut.  It was clear that Reese hadn't gotten enough to eat for a very long time, so Harold had made sure there was enough food on his breakfast table for ten men. 

And if all that failed, at the far end of the table, barely visible past all of the food, sat a small but expensive tape recorder. 

It was there because despite the fact that Reese was far too thin, Finch wasn't entirely sure that he could tempt him with food.  But he couldn't bear the thought of John going hungry either, so he'd ordered this lavish buffet and invited him to breakfast anyway, in case he was wrong about that.  He had to try _something_ \-- he had to try everything he could, to entice Reese to stay long enough to hear him out a second time.  Hence the tape recorder.  In case food and another attempt at persuasion failed, it was his back-up plan; his weapon of last resort. 

For John’s sake, he prayed that he wouldn’t have to use it.  He knew what kind of memories the tape on that machine might evoke for his old friend if John heard it; and he didn't want to cause him any more pain.  He’d been clumsy enough already, in mentioning his wife’s death yesterday.  He didn't want to have to remind Reese of his tragic past again, or to provoke another extreme, possibly even worse reaction.

Still, Harold was desperate enough, determined enough to play the tape if he had to.  He looked at the clock again.  _9:00 a.m.  What if Reese doesn’t come?_

Harold’s heart beat hard in the silence.  So much depended on this…  Everything did.  Everything he’d dedicated himself to, for the past few years.  This was his _last chance_ at convincing Reese to help him.  He couldn't blunder with him again, couldn't afford the luxury of another mistake.  This time, he had to make it work. 

It wasn’t that he couldn’t hire someone else to do the kind of work his hunt would involve.  In the wake of the war, there were plenty of men who were skilled at surveillance, good with guns and even better at killing.  Though he’d settle for such a man if he had to, Harold feared that doing so would both taint and imperil his plan.

He didn’t want a cold, heartless mercenary for his project.  He wanted a man with a conscience.  He _wanted_ John Mars, no matter what he was calling himself now, not just for his skills but because he knew he could trust him; and trust him to do the right thing, too.  Though he made a mental note to address him as “Mr. Reese” again when he arrived, as that was the name he went by these days, and Harold couldn't afford to annoy or offend him again.  On the contrary.  He wanted to make it clear how much he still respected John, despite his current circumstances.     

He realized that he might be unwise to place so much faith in a man who now seemed to have a rather precarious hold on sanity.  Some would’ve said that he was less than sane himself, to do so.  Logic would certainly dictate choosing someone else for his project, especially now that he’d seen how far his former bodyguard had descended into drinking and despair.

Yet Finch knew that everyone of worth deserved a second chance.  John Reese certainly did.  He was a decorated combat veteran who'd saved many lives, including Finch's own.  Reese had made a supreme sacrifice twice.  After over a year of desperate, bloody fighting in North Africa, he'd been badly wounded saving others and sent home, where he'd been decorated for heroism.  He could've sat out the rest of the war safely, gone to clubs and parties, been lauded as the war hero that he was, and with his striking looks, had scores of women at his feet as well.  Finch had met several former RAF pilots who'd done just that. 

But John Mars wasn't that kind of man.  Instead of partying and boasting about his exploits, John had simply gone home to his wife to recuperate; and the moment his injuries healed, he'd volunteered for even more dangerous duty in the SAS.  He'd taken on a difficult assignment guarding Finch, saved him from a team of S.S. assassins, then gone back to war a second time, in the most dangerous way imaginable; as a covert SAS operative in enemy-occupied territory. 

But in return for his enormous courage and self-sacrifice, he'd lost everything:  his wife, his SAS rank and reputation, and apparently even his will to live.  That was what Finch hoped to give back to him, because John deserved so much more than the terrible fate life had handed him. 

Finch needed to set that tragedy right, somehow.  Against all logic, he clung passionately to the belief that the former soldier he’d crossed the Atlantic to find was not just the perfect man for the dangerous job he now needed to do, but the only one who could do it the way it needed to be done.  Hopefully, with no loss of life.  The fact that even when John had become enraged at him, his 'assault' had been so gentle that it had hardly even bruised Finch, gave him hope that he'd chosen the right man. 

Although Harold would never tell him so, despite the odd circumstances, it'd felt good being in John's arms again yesterday.  He knew it was probably pathetic to feel that way.  Anyone else would’ve taken that incident as evidence that Reese had lost his mind, lost control to the point where he couldn’t be trusted. 

But Harold had never seen things the way that most people did.  He'd felt an echo of their old friendship in Reese's restraint, and secretly enjoyed his embrace.  He'd never really thought that Reese meant to hurt him, he'd just wanted him to stop talking about the painful subject of his wife's death.  He could only hope he wasn't wrong about that.  His unrequited love for John was so old and deep, now, that he knew he'd never be free of it.  The truth was, he didn't want to be.

At twenty minutes past the hour, though, Harold began to wonder if his hope had been in vain.  His chaffeur had left to pick Reese up long ago.  He'd left early, in fact.  So where were they?

 

 *

Finch's chaffeur drove Reese to the Waldorf Astoria, and told him Finch was expecting him in room 407.  Reese got out of the Rolls and craned his head back, looking up at the hotel's dizzying height.  Despite his haircut and shave last night, his clothes were still old and ragged, and he was going to stick out like a sore thumb in such a ritzy hotel.

I must be nuts, he thought, cynicism still battling it out with hope and curiosity.  Then he thought, _Harold's in there_.

He went in.

Reese lingered in the Astoria's lobby for a few minutes, ambling around idly.  He amused himself by watching the dismayed, sometimes disgusted looks on the clerks and bellboys' faces when they noticed his shabby clothes.  He finally turned and headed for the stairs, before one of them got provoked enough to call the hotel detective to try to have him thrown out.  He smiled to himself, thinking that it was too early in the day to decimate whatever unlucky bastard they might send after him.

At the fourth floor, he scanned the hotel corridor outside room 407 cautiously.  Finding it empty and quiet, he knocked at the door.  When Finch opened it, he slipped inside and automatically did a visual sweep of the room.  He satisfied himself quickly that they were alone, then stared in surprise at the large, elegant table behind Finch, that was loaded with more food than Reese had seen in years.  I thought he invited me to breakfast, not a banquet, he thought, amused by the reminder that Finch never did things by halves.

“Good morning, Mr. Reese.”  Harold looked -- and sounded -- a bit nervous, he thought.

Reese wondered why.  “Jesus, Finch,” he rasped. “Who else did you invite for breakfast?  There's enough food here for a small army.”  He gave Finch a sharp glance, only half joking.  They  were alone, but Reese was still wary.  Had Finch asked someone else to join them here without telling him?  Was this some kind of set-up?

Finch searched his eyes, then said quietly, “You're my only guest, Mr. Reese.  I just don't know what you prefer to eat these days, so I ordered a bit of everything.”

“Just a bit,” Reese echoed wryly.  He should've known that the food wasn't evidence of a trap, but of Harold's usual generosity.  Still...  He looked at the table again, and at the odd object he'd spotted at the far end of it. 

“Why is that here?” he asked, his suspicions reviving as he pointed at the tape player sitting there, half buried under a pile of napkins.

Finch looked uncomfortable, even a bit guilty, and swallowed hard.  Reese realized that Harold had hoped he wouldn't spot the tape recorder that fast; or maybe at all.  Then you should've hidden it better, he thought wryly.

“I'll get to that.  But please, sit down, have something to eat first --”

Reese shook his head, baring his teeth in a cold smile, hiding his disappointment that Finch had turned out to be as untrustworthy as everyone else.  “I'm not very hungry.  Let's get down to business.  What do you really want?”  Finch was the one who'd brought the tape recorder here and made this something other than a social call, after all.

Finch tried once more, waving a hand at the heavily laden table.  “Please, won't you try _something_?” 

“No.”  Reese thought Finch sounded a little desperate.  But he wasn't used to eating much anymore; and at the moment, he was far more interested in Finch's secrets and whatever was on that tape, than he was in the food.

“Well then.  Will you at least have some tea, and allow me to discuss my project with you again first?”

He held Finch's gaze and coldly let his silence answer for him.

Harold's mouth set unhappily at his repeated refusals.  “All right then,” he sighed.  “As you wish.  To answer your question, the tape recorder's here because there’s something...  I’ll ask you to listen to,” he said, choosing his words carefully.

Since he hadn't said 'something I’d _like_ you to listen to', Reese guessed that whatever was on that tape was at least unpleasant, and at worst maybe even dangerous to hear.

“But I warn you, it won’t be pleasant,” Finch added, right on cue.

Reese couldn’t help rolling his eyes a little.  “Yeah, I figured that.”  He was hardly a shrinking violet Finch needed to protect.  If Finch only knew some of the things he’d seen and done in North Africa.  In addition to his regular British Army training, the SAS had taught him myriad methods of sabotage, dirty tricks and ways to kill.  By the time they were done with him, he was single-handedly capable of sinking a ship, blowing up a bridge, putting a train's engine out of commission with a screwdriver, or derailing it.  He’d been taught how to jump from a fast-moving train, throw a horse or kill an attack dog with his bare hands.  He knew how to make invisible ink, how to code, encipher and decode all kinds of messages, and receive and transmit Morse code.  His combat training had been augmented with an extensive knowlege of human anatomy; specifically, of the body's many vulnerabilities.  He knew half a hundred ways to kill people, many of them swift and utterly silent. 

He’d used most of that knowledge, and learned a lot of new ways to torture and kill besides, in Africa.  He sometimes thought of himself as a walking encyclopedia of death and destruction.  _Pick a page_.

“Go ahead,” he said curtly. 

“All right.”  Finch got up, went to the tape recorder and turned it on.  For a moment, there was only a slight hissing sound.  He had the machine’s volume turned down, Reese noted.  He realized why, when Finch adjusted the volume and a woman's screams became audible.  Despite his dark past, they disturbed Reese.  They reminded him of the way Jess sometimes screamed in his nightmares, and his gut roiled.  But he drew on years of training, froze his expression and didn't move or react.  He was already embarrassed at losing control with Finch over his mention of Jessica yesterday.  He wasn't about to repeat that mistake.

Still, the woman on the tape was shrieking in agony, not in fear.  Reese's experienced ears discerned the difference quickly, and his muscles tensed in purely instinctive reaction.  His body wanted to move, to go to her defense, to stop her suffering.  He forced himself to hold still instead, but even at a low volume, her screams were harrowing.  Agonized, animal cries of suffering that went on for several minutes. 

Finally, they diminished into moans and Reese heard a muffled but cold male voice bark a harsh order at her.  The woman panted but stayed silent.  Then there were several dull, fleshy thumps and cracking sounds, accompanied by another burst of screams.

Reese recognized the sounds instantly _.  They’re breaking her bones_ , he realized.  _Probably with a hammer_.  Though he'd tortured some Germans for information himself, he'd never done that to a woman, and it bothered him, listening to it.  Disturbing memories began to stir in his mind, of his own interrogation and torture. 

He started to get angry again.  He didn't show it, not wanting to lose control in front of Finch a second time, but what the fuck was he up to, anyway, making him listen to shit like this?  He'd already made him lose it yesterday, by talking about Jess's death.  Was Finch trying to upset him again?  He wasn't going to let that happen.  He decided he’d heard enough.  “Turn it off,” he grated. 

Finch did so quickly, with a look of relief, then turned back to Reese.  Harold looked pale, like listening to that had been harrowing for him, too.  But before he could say anything, Reese growled, “That was an interrogation.  Gestapo, I’d guess.”  His voice came out rougher than he'd intended.  He blamed that on the dark memories that were swirling through his head, after hearing those screams. 

“Yes,” Finch answered.  “How did you know?”

It was all he could do not to snarl at Finch in response.  No one who'd been interrogated by the Gestapo ever forgot what it was like.  He’d’ve guessed that was the origin of the tape anyway, since it was part of Finch’s continuing effort to convince him to join his Nazi hunt.  He settled for mentioning what he’d heard on it instead.  “On the tape, someone said 'Talk, bitch' in German.”

“Ah.  I didn’t think you’d catch that at low volume,” Finch muttered.  Then he shot a wary glance at Reese.  “I’m sorry.  I hope listening to that didn’t—”

“Forget it,” Reese said sharply, cutting off Finch’s apology.  Too late for that, and he wasn’t about to admit that the tape had shaken him anyway.  But it had -- reminding him of his nightmares about Jessica, of men he'd tortured and of his own ordeal as well.  He’d never screamed for the Gestapo himself, but sometimes in his darkest nightmares, when he relived his own torture, he did. 

“That unfortunate woman you just heard was Princess Noor Inayat Khan, a British operative during the war,” Finch said quietly.  “Her father was a Sufi master and musician, her mother a niece of the Christian Science founder, Mary Baker Eddy.  Her family was living in France when the Germans invaded, but they were able to get to England, where the Princess joined the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force.  The SOE spotted her keen intelligence, trained her as a wireless operator, and sent her to France in ’43.  She was stationed in the countryside at first, but was forced to flee to Paris when the Germans invaded. 

After learning that she was the only SOE agent left there, she bravely chose to stay in order to help rescue downed Allied pilots.  She did so for several months.  But she was finally betrayed by a neighbor for money, and caught and tortured by the Gestapo.  They made this tape of her… interrogations,” Finch said with disgust, “because she was a princess.  A minor celebrity of sorts.  Thus, it meant more to them to have such power over her.”

Reese believed him.  He didn't ask how Finch had come across a taped copy of one of her torture sessions.  He didn't need to ask; he could guess.  He felt an unwilling surge of sympathy for Noor, though.  Jesus, the Nazi fuckers had made a tape of their brutal maiming of a brave woman so they could listen to it repeatedly, and so they could gloat about beating the shit out of a _princess_.  Then they must've made copies, so they could pass them around and brag about it to their friends.  The twisted _fucks_.  And somehow, probably in the research he was doing for his Nazi-hunting scheme, Finch had found one of those copies. 

Though he refused to show it, listening to that tape had made Reese's skin crawl.  He’d once been in a dark hole like that himself.  But he’d been an SAS commando, big and strong, trained to resist interrogation and torture, and trained to be lethal himself.  Still, he’d barely survived the Gestapo.  He couldn’t imagine what their unrelenting torture must’ve been like for a woman who wasn't combat trained or hardened. 

He didn't want to say anything, didn't want to betray how listening to some of her ordeal on that tape had affected him.  But after being forced to listen to her screams, he needed to know her fate.  Finally, he rasped reluctantly, “What happened to Princess Noor?”

Finch was silent for a moment, and the look on his face...  Finally he said quietly, “She fought her captors so hard that they classified her as an extremely dangerous prisoner, and sent her to Dachau.  They tortured her for a month, and according to a fellow prisoner who was incarcerated there with her who survived, they broke many of her bones.”  Finch had paled and his voice was hushed, his empathy obvious. 

“Her hands and feet were maimed.  But she was very brave, and they got nothing out of her.  Unfortunately, they eventually managed to find her SOE notebook, with the codes she used for her radio transmissions.  Once they did, her usefulness to them was ended.  She was turned over to the SD and shot,” Finch finished heavily.

Reese set his jaw against a familiar sense of helpless anger.  Even though he’d never known the woman, she’d obviously been incredibly brave.  She’d held out under torture just like he had, though she'd been tortured far longer.  Unlike him though, all her bravery got her was a bullet, in the end.  Fucking Nazi _bastards!_ he thought, seething.

Reese loved women, and he’d always hated men who abused them.  He wished he'd known Noor, and that he could’ve gotten the Gestapo bastards who’d tortured her and taped her screams for their amusement, into a dark little room for a couple of hours.  He’d’ve enjoyed the chance to make them pay for what they'd done to her.

“She is, of course, only one of millions who suffered a fate like this at German hands,” Finch cut in, interrupting Reese's grim musings.

“I know that!” Reese snapped, suddenly angry at the way Finch was trying to manipulate him again.  Harold always had plans within plans, and he'd always been stubborn, too.  He didn't give up when he wanted something, and for some unfathomable reason, he evidently wanted Reese badly for his vigilante scheme.  So when Finch's arguments and the food failed to sway him, he'd had that damn tape ready.  Hell, it was probably the reason he'd picked it up in the first place:  as a recruitment tool.  He couldn't imagine why Finch would've wanted the disgusting thing otherwise.  Harold knew he liked women, and he'd foreseen the possible need for a fallback plan, in case his first effort to convince him to join up failed.  Still, Reese resented the way he'd used that awful tape to get at his weak spot. 

He really didn’t need anyone lecturing him about Nazi brutality either, when he'd spent years fighting them, lost most of his friends to them, and wound up with their sadism carved into his very skin.  “Did you think that tape would work better than food to convince me to help you, Finch?” he growled angrily.

Harold looked away, his eyes clouding with sorrow and guilt. “No.  I didn't want you to have to hear that, Mr. Reese,” he said quietly at last.  “I was hoping to discuss the matter with you again over breakfast instead, without playing that tape at all.  But you refused, and left me no choice.”

Reese let out a breath.  He couldn't argue with that, and it defused his anger.  Harold's original intentions had been good, after all.  He'd gone to considerable trouble and expense with the food, so he must've noticed Reese's skinny frame and meant to feed him, and discuss his plan again.  He'd repeatedly asked Reese to eat with him.  But once he'd glimpsed the tape recorder, Reese had been too suspicious to relax enough to sit down and eat.  So it was really mostly his own fault that he'd had to listen to that damn tape.

When Finch looked up again, his gaze was pleading.  “But please -- try to understand.  I couldn’t save Princess Noor.  But I asked you here because there are many others who we _can_ save from monsters like this, monsters who are still out there.  _If you agree to help me_.  _Please, Mr. Reese_.”

The minute he'd opened Finch's invitation, Reese had known Finch would come back to this, that it was the real reason Harold wanted to see him again.  When he’d seen that tape recorder, he’d known it must have something to do with that, too.

But he’d also known that his answer was still no.  Listening to that tape hadn’t changed his mind.  It only made him feel annoyed again that Finch hadn't come here to see an old friend, he just wanted to hire an assassin.  But Reese saw enough dead men in his dreams already. 

He shook his head stubbornly.  “I won’t kill for a living anymore, Finch,” he grated.  “I’m done with that.”

Finch cocked his head and stared at him in surprise.  “Is that what you thought?  That I want to hire you as an _assassin_?”  He sounded surprised and insulted. 

Reese frowned in equal confusion.  “Yeah.  You said you wanted to hunt Nazis --”

“Yes, but not to _kill_ them, Mr. Reese!”  Finch blinked.  “I apologize if I somehow gave you that impression.  That's not my intention, I assure you.”

Reese suddenly realized, Finch had never actually said he wanted to hire him to _kill_ Nazis -- he'd just assumed that was what he meant.  He couldn't imagine how else you could handle the problem.

“Then what the hell _are_ you gonna do with them, if you find them?” Reese sneered in disbelief.  “Lecture them about their evil ways over tea?”

“ _When_ I find them,” Finch corrected grimly, “I mean to see them face justice, not a bullet.”

Reese stared at him.  “You mean capture them for _trials_?”  It was his turn to be taken aback.  It’d never even occurred to him that Harold meant to do anything other than kill any Nazis he might find.  He’d assumed that’s what Finch needed him for:  his expertise at assassinations.

The truth was worse.  So much more dangerous that it stunned him.  Reese got a cold feeling in his gut, just imagining what Finch's plan would involve.  Like Finch had said, the Nazis he wanted to track had mostly gone to South America, to countries run by ruthless dictators who protected them.  To have them tried, Finch would have to capture and hold some of the world's most dangerous psychopaths, then somehow secretly smuggle them out of South America under the noses of hostile governments, possibly to Europe.  Reese wasn’t sure where Finch meant to send them, but he knew there was no way in hell they’d ever get a fair trial anywhere in South America.

But capturing, then transporting such men elsewhere for trial would be far more dangerous than putting a bullet through their heads would've been.  As if capturing hardened killers wouldn't be dangerous enough, Finch would also be pitting himself against South American dictators and their secret police to accomplish that. 

Again, he wondered if Finch had gone nuts.  “And just how the hell do you intend to do _that_?  Where are you gonna send them, and how the hell are you gonna smuggle them out of countries that protect them?”

Finch's lips thinned at his sarcasm, but he answered patiently, “I’m sure you understand that I can’t give you details about all that, unless you agree to work with me.  Let’s just say that I have certain… methods set up, to deal with them.  I promise you, I don't intend to harm the men I find.  I’ve made arrangements to ensure that the Nazis I track down will be dealt with legally.  They will be tried and judged by others in a court of law, not killed when we find them.”

Reese looked away.  Finch had caught him by surprise with all this.  He’d been about to walk out a second time, thinking that Finch just wanted a killer, but now he hesitated.  

“John,” Finch said, sounding quietly appalled.  “Did you really think I’d hire you to _murder_ for me?”

_The SAS did_ , John thought darkly.  _Why would you be any different_?  But he didn’t say it, because Finch _was_ different.  Finch was one of the best men he’d ever known. 

_I should've known he wouldn't do that._  He supposed he’d just assumed Finch wanted to hire him as an assassin because old habits die hard.  He wasn't sure what to say, so he just shrugged.

Finch pursed his lips, displeased with that response. “And do you really think I would ask you to do this, if I hadn't planned every aspect of it meticulously?”

Finch had a point there, too.  Reese remembered his brilliance at strategy very well.  Harold planned everything out in advance, and was usually always ten steps ahead of everyone else.  It was why Churchill and some of the world's top scientists had consulted with him, and why he was such a master at chess.  Even so...

“No.  But I just wonder if you realize how goddamn dangerous what you're talking about would be,” he grated.

“I assure you, I do.  I haven't forgotten that I owe you my life, Mr. Reese.  I wouldn't risk yours in some poorly conceived operation, I promise you."

"And what about you?" Reese shot back. "You're a well-known scientist, who's been complaining--in print--about escaped Nazis to the British and American governments and various other prominent organizations. I guarantee you, those letters were all saved, and that MI6 is aware of them, and watching you. Probably the OSS too. Do you think they won't notice if you hare off to South America, and then Nazis start getting caught there and mysteriously shipped off for trials? You'll be I.D.'ed as the culprit in a second, Finch. They could charge you with kidnapping, and worse."

Finch just nodded quietly. "I've planned for that eventuality as well, Mr. Reese. Don't forget, I have powerful, influential friends. Besides, I'm not only officially retired now, I'm living in Europe. In France, to be precise."

Reese smiled in wry admiration. Really smart choice for a new home, he thought. Neither the British government nor MI6 had any official power there, and the French hated the Nazis with a passion. Though the war was over, he'd heard that the French Resistance was still active and quietly, secretly hunting down and executing collaborators over there. Finch had probably made contact with them already. And it was a good bet that even if the French government was handed indisputable proof of Finch's involvement in covert Nazi hunting, they'd either ignore it or even pin a medal on him. He also suspected that Finch might've found a way to prove that he'd been in France, at the time any Nazis were captured elsewhere. Doubles had been used before in the spy game.

"Still, I won't lie to you," Finch added.  "Though we will take all possible precautions, if you agree to work with me, I regret to say that I cannot guarantee your safety.”

John had to stifle a laugh at that.  That was putting it mildly -- Harold's plan was really a suicide mission.  “Or your own.  What you're saying is, if we do this, we're both probably gonna wind up dead,” he snorted.

Finch met his gaze squarely, unflinching.  “Most likely.”

Reese shook his head wryly. He'd already survived the SAS, which was one of the world's most dangerous jobs.  He'd had years of experience fighting Nazis, too.  Still... 

“That's a helluva recruitment tactic, Harold, telling the brutal truth like that.  Don't you know, you're supposed to lie to green prospective recruits?  Use words like 'duty' and 'glory' to get them hooked?”  Reese was stalling. He knew he was crazy to even listen to this plan a second time.  He should just get the hell out, but somehow he couldn't. 

Finch didn't smile.  “Perhaps.  However, you are anything but 'green', Mr. Reese.  And I know that you were lied to and betrayed more than once, during the war.  I will never do that to you.”

Reese stared at him, surprised and unexpectedly moved by Finch's quiet promise.  He'd just been teasing, but he knew Harold meant it.  And despite the many times Reese had been betrayed, he wanted to believe him.  Finch had been honest just now, not sugarcoating the extreme danger his plan would put them in.

_Them_.  Jesus.  Was he already thinking of it like that -- him and Finch against the world?  He turned and paced away, unwilling to let Finch see that he'd gotten under his skin.  But he felt himself giving in, getting caught up by Finch's honesty, by his intensity.  For the first time, he wondered, _Could Finch actually make this work?_

He'd come up with a wrinkle Reese hadn't expected:  capturing Nazis for prosecution, rather than killing them.  Though Finch's plan would be even more dangerous than the assassinations Reese had been used to, it would also be justice rather than murder.  And somewhere in the back of Reese's mind, Noor's terrible screams still sounded.  The idea that he could possibly save someone else from her fate without having to kill for a living was a powerful lure for him. 

_Fuck_ , he thought, surprised at himself.  Against his will, and despite the blatant manipulation of that tape, Finch had gotten to him. 

 

*

Reese turned away abruptly and began pacing restlessly around the room, his eyes flickering, his face unreadable.  Still, he hadn't left, even after hearing that terrible tape recording.  He was still here, and presumably thinking things over.  Finch watched him silently, knowing he’d just “thrown him a curveball”, as the Americans said. 

Now that he knows I don't want to hire him to kill, I believe he’s reconsidering my offer, Finch thought, hope surging with almost painful intensity inside of him.

Already, Reese seemed different.  He'd bathed, for one thing.  His face and hands were clean, he'd shaved off his ragged moustache and beard, and even gotten a rough haircut.  He seemed sharper this morning, too.  Not at all drunk, as he had been at their previous meeting. 

Harold could see the difference in the way he moved, as well.  Thin as he was, Reese paced the room with the edgy grace and barely suppressed lethality of a caged tiger.  It reminded him of how Sgt. Mars had moved, that fateful day when he'd saved his life in the woods years ago; and it was all Harold could do not to stare at him.

Finch had done his best to hide it, but Reese’s altered voice also sent shivers down his spine.  He'd wondered about it yesterday, too.  It was now lower and slightly softer than John Mars’ voice had been – almost like the purr of a lover. 

At least it would be if Mr. Reese ever had anything even remotely sweet to say, he thought wryly.  It was probably lucky for Finch that given the nature of the work he hoped to recruit him for, Reese would always be more prone to snarling than pillow talk -- at least with him. 

Still, he couldn’t help wondering what’d happened to change the ex-soldier's voice.  Whatever it was, it must've occurred after John had left for North Africa the second time -- that was all Finch knew.  A neck injury during his time in the SAS, perhaps?  Or had something happened to him more recently in New York?  The investigators he'd hired to find and follow Reese here had reported seeing him bruised on occasion, but not badly injured. 

His SAS file had listed several injuries, but nothing that would account for his altered voice.  Finch knew that Mars' radio contacts with the SAS had been very limited when he was a covert agent, though.  A lot of things must've gone unreported, because there simply wasn't time to do it.  And stoic as John was, his own injuries would've been the last things he'd ever report. He wondered if he'd ever know what'd happened to him.  He doubted it.  He suspected that Reese would prove to be as close-mouthed about his injuries as Harold was about his own.

“Please, Mr. Reese,” Finch said at last, when Reese's restless pacing had stretched his nerves to the breaking point.  “Won't you sit down and eat something while you consider my offer?”

 

*

Reese shot him a darkly amused look.  “You said you asked me here to have a drink to celebrate the outcome of the war, Finch.  Got any whiskey?”

“Sorry, no.  There is coffee, tea and juice, however.  Will that do?”  Something in Harold's eyes told Reese that despite his failure to provide liquor for it, their old vow to have a celebratory drink when the war ended still meant something to him, too. 

“Coffee then,” Reese said gruffly, snarling inwardly at his own sentimentality.  “Black.” 

Finch looked both relieved and grateful as he poured Reese a cup of coffee, and himself one of tea.  But before Finch could say anything formal or sentimental, Reese picked up his coffee and said simply, “To beating the Nazi bastards,” as he touched his cup to Finch's. 

Finch's eyes widened slightly in surprise, then held Reese's gaze for a moment.  “Hear, hear,” he seconded quietly.  Something flashed between them then as their eyes met, something unexpected and potent.  Maybe an acknowledgment of the roles they'd each played in the war, or what it had cost them both. 

_Jess,_ Reese thought, aching so that he couldn't speak.  Finch's eyes darkened too, and Reese wondered if he was seeing Nathan Ingram's ghost.

They drank their coffee and tea in silence for a time, neither of them wanting to speak of old wounds. 

Finally, Finch shook himself, took another sip of tea and said quietly, “When I first conceived of this project, I was reading a book of old myths and legends.  I came across a tale about Hellhounds.  According to the book, a Hellhound is a hunting dog with supernatural powers.  They’re often assigned to hunt lost souls.  In European legends, seeing a Hellhound or hearing it howl may be an omen of, or even a cause of death.”

John cocked his head at him, surprised and bemused.  “Reading fairy tales? Doesn't sound like you, Finch.”

Finch turned away a little, his eyes softening with what looked like a memory.  “Perhaps.  But someone I once knew was very fond of them.” 

Not Ingram, I'll bet, John thought, intrigued.  Other than some fond memories of Nathan at Cambridge that he'd sometimes shared, this was the first time he'd ever heard Harold mention his past, even obliquely.  He examined the remark carefully, to see what it could tell him. 

Though it was typically, frustratingly vague, just “someone” with no hint of where, when or even the gender of the person Harold was thinking of, from the soft look in his eyes, John guessed shrewdly that the person who'd loved fairy tales was a woman.  And someone who’d mattered to Finch, because he’d obviously had her on his mind while planning his Nazi hunting.  He'd used the past tense to refer to her too, so either they'd fallen out of touch, or she was dead. 

So -- a wife, an old friend or girlfriend, a sister, or even his mother?  Or maybe a daughter, though that was doubtful.  If Finch had had a daughter or even been married before, MI6 would've noted it in his file.  All he could infer was that somewhere in Finch's past, someone he'd cared for, someone who was probably female and whose opinion had mattered -- an old lover, his mother or sister -- had been fond of fairy tales.  It wasn't much. 

But Reese memorized the scrap of information anyway.  Though they'd once been friends, Finch had never talked about himself, and never answered when John had tried asking questions about him, so he'd always been curious about his past.  The MI6 file he'd been given on him years ago hadn't contained much information about it.  Everything in intelligence work was given out on a 'need to know' basis, and the higher-ups hadn't thought Reese needed to know much about that, in order to guard Finch.  And Harold was so close-mouthed about his past, Reese was starting to think it might take years to figure him out.  But John was good at learning other people's secrets, and if he took this job, it would give him close access to Finch; so who knew?

Part of him knew he was nuts for even considering this.  It would be the craziest thing he'd ever done. 

Then again, what the hell did he have to lose?  Just his life, and that'd stopped mattering the day he'd found out that Jessica had died.

 

*

Finch turned back to face him, his eyes fastening on John's intensely.  “I want you to hunt Nazis with me, John.  I want you to be my Hellhound.  I want the monsters we track down to look in your eyes and see their doom.”

Their gazes locked, and John was held, transfixed by Harold's words and the passionate plea in his eyes. It woke something in him, something that'd been half asleep since the war.  The soldier inside of him stirred.  Memory flashed, and he was chasing Germans again, hunting them down in the woods near Bletchley – to protect Harold.  And it was intense, thrilling; it was fucking _glorious_ , what he'd been born for.  _And it had been for Finch_.

The hunter inside him rose, straining eagerly at Finch's offer, baying an instinctive _yes_.

Reese froze in shock.

Just for a second, he’d felt like Sergeant John Mars again.  Ready, even eager to take on the world:  _for Harold_.

He hadn’t felt like that since he’d learned of Jessica’s death.  He hadn’t known that kind of excitement, that sense of purpose or belonging to someone else was even _possible_ for him anymore.  But something in him suddenly leapt, as savagely eager as the supernatural hounds in those old legends, at the thought of hunting down Nazis for Harold.

He’d known Finch had brought him here to try to enlist him in his mad scheme again, and he’d planned to say no.  But ever since Finch reassured him that killing wasn't part of his plan, he'd been wavering.  It wasn’t that his project seemed less crazy now -- it was still a great way to get them both killed.  But excitement now surged in Reese, because the possibilities it offered seemed so exciting that death didn’t matter.

Suddenly, he _wanted_ to do it.  Strike back, instead of wasting away.  Quit drifting and slowly drinking himself to death, and have a purpose; a reason to live.  If they did this, it would also be a measure of justice for what those Kraut bastards had done to Jessica and all of his Army and SAS mates. 

Most of all, it would be a way that he could protect people again.  The idea stirred him.  His heart beat faster, with the first real excitement he’d felt in years.

But he didn't let it show.  Reese stayed calm, kept his face blank as usual while he reconsidered.  The first thing was, could he do this?  Quit drinking, keep a lid on his temper, and be an effective operative for Finch?  The only way to know, he supposed, was to try it. 

The second thing was, there were also aspects of this that he thought Finch probably didn't understand, because he'd never been in combat.  He didn't want to kill for a living anymore; and he didn't want Harold mixed up in that, either.  But if he did this, if _they_ did, despite Harold's good intentions, Reese knew that there would be casualties.  They'd be pursuing ruthless, experienced killers with everything to lose.  So no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, he'd wind up having to kill some Nazis anyway; because some of them would fight to the death rather than be captured.  It was the nature of the grim business of hunting men down.  He wondered if Finch realized that.  Probably not.  He'd always been gentle and idealistic. 

Reese decided not to tell him.  Why burden Harold with something he couldn't change, that would only hurt him?  He could bear the weight instead. He felt that old, familiar darkness settle on his shoulders again, the invisible burden that every soldier carried.  He decided he was okay with it, as long as killing wasn't their goal.  Killing had been his job once as a soldier, and though he'd never liked it, he'd been good at it.  He decided that he could shoulder that burden again for Harold, and for Jessica.  He owed them both a debt he needed to repay. 

Besides, he had so many deaths on his conscience now that really, what would a few more matter?  And these were _Nazis_ they'd be hunting.  If he wound up having to kill some mass murderers to defend Finch, himself or some innocent, he could handle that.  It would even satisfy the dark part of him, that wanted vengeance for his wife and all of his murdered friends.  And dangerous though this job would be, how many battered, penniless, homeless ex-soldiers ever got a second chance like this?

_I'll get to be with Harold, too_ , his inner voice whispered; and that was the strongest, most potent lure of all.

Still...  No matter how much the idea appealed to him, Reese had learned long ago not to volunteer for anything without learning more about it.  Bitter betrayals and past experience had made him wary.  He had to make sure he understood exactly what he was getting into.  “You’re talking about a war,” he said roughly.  “A secret war of your own, against escaped Nazis?”

Finch just nodded, his hands in his pockets, as cool and collected as if they were planning a damn garden party.  “Exactly, Mr. Reese.”

Reese tried to take it all in.  It still just didn’t seem possible that a bookish guy like Finch, a prominent scientist for Crissakes, would propose becoming a vigilante to hunt down Nazis -- with Reese, of all people.  His mind buzzed with questions.  “How many people is this little war of yours gonna involve?” 

“Just two.  You and I.  Any more, and we’d run the risk of someone talking too much, exposing us and compromising our operations.”

Reese blinked at that shrewd, accurate assessment.  “Clearly, your time at MI6 wasn't wasted,” he said wryly.  While Finch had started out as a scientist and had never done fieldwork, he'd still been involved in espionage for years, and thoroughness was part of good spycraft.  How long had he been planning this, anyway?

As if Finch had read his mind, he said, “I’ve been thinking about this for years.  I anticipated it being a problem long before the war ended, and I’ve planned for it very carefully.  I’ve gathered reams of information on the men we’ll be looking for, through the OSS, British intelligence and other sources.  And I know where to go to get even more.”

Reese was impressed.  How in the hell had Harold foreseen that this was going to happen?  That so many Nazis would escape justice after the war?  Then again -- Finch had headed his own department at MI6, met with the OSS and the Prime Minister regularly, and was enormously wealthy.  All that would’ve given him access to information the average spy could only dream of.  He was also a brilliant physicist and mathematician.  A whiz with numbers and a master at chess, whose ability to plan ahead was a defining characteristic. 

Given all that, Reese thought wryly, maybe it would've been more surprising if Finch _hadn't_ foreseen this.

Finch went on, “I’ve made lots of contacts too, people who will help us.  But in the end, it’ll be just you and I out in the field.  And we won’t be staying here, we’ll have to travel -- to Europe and South America too.  We'll have to stay there for quite some time.  Possibly years.” 

Reese just shrugged.  He hadn’t considered leaving the States, but now that his family and Jess were gone, it didn’t matter where he lived.  It came down to this:  he could either go on as he had been, slowly drinking himself to death – or he could take Finch up on his offer. 

“I know you must've asked yourself if I've gone mad, taking on a probable suicide mission.  And worse, asking you to join me,” Finch said gravely.  “You were SAS, you know the risks involved in this better than I.  I asked myself the same questions, John, believe me.  I didn't want to take on this kind of task.  But I made a vow during the war that I would do something about this problem.  And as I said, I approached all the Allied governments, the Jewish Council and every organization I could think of, asking them to take on this cause, but received only silence in return.  Yet with all that I know, I simply cannot stand by and do nothing.  So I was forced to act.  I _must_ act, since no one else will.  Do you understand?”  Finch's eyes were so intense, locked on him and pleading for his understanding.

“Yeah,” Reese muttered reluctantly, because in spite of everything, he did understand.  But he still hated the thought of Harold -- so deeply decent and compassionate, and injured and untrained too -- pitting himself against ruthless mass murderers.  _You have to help him_ , a voice whispered again, deep inside.

“We will have a chance to do society a great service by bringing these men to justice,” Finch went on.  “We can’t bring back those they killed, but we _can_ save the people that they may hurt or kill wherever they've settled now, if someone doesn’t stop them.  Because we both know that men like these won't change, won't just settle down and become peaceful.  Wherever they go, they'll still prey on the innocent; so by finding them and handing them over for trial, we'll do more than get justice for their victims.  We'll also keep them from finding new ones.  What do you say, Mr. Reese?  Will you help me?”

Finch's words had a powerful effect on Reese.  It had been so long since he'd been needed, valued, _wanted_ \-- He remembered, irrationally, how good it'd felt holding Harold in his arms yesterday...  Part of him protested, _That was just to shut him up_. But a deeper part remembered some of the male targets the SAS had ordered him to seduce during the war with a flicker of pleasure.  A few of them had shown him, unexpectedly, that male bodies could arouse and please him too...

Though he didn't understand what that memory had to do with Harold, somehow, it was all he could do not to say yes right then.  He fought it, trapped the words behind his stubbornly clenched teeth, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle.  He couldn’t seem to summon up any more opposition to Finch’s plan.

On the contrary -- the more Finch talked about it, the better it sounded to Reese.  He’d been drifting for so long, letting everything go, trying to die because he'd failed Jessica.  He'd figured he deserved that, but Finch was offering him something better; a chance to die for a good cause.  Not for patriotism or for some government that didn’t really give a damn, but for a practical purpose.  To _save people_ , real people who needed help, and to get justice for the victims of mass murders.  Crazy as it seemed, he could partner up with Finch and help him put away some monsters who’d killed a lot of people, save the innocents that they’d otherwise prey on, and keep Harold from getting killed in the process. 

_I can do some good before I die_.  He'd given up on that long ago, felt that he'd become stained and unredeemable for what he'd done to Jessica and the things he'd done for the SAS.  But seeing Finch again was bringing back old feelings and memories.  Making Reese want to be more like the man he'd once been.  The soldier who'd devoted his life to making the world safer.  The hunter, who'd tracked and killed Nazis in both England and Africa.

_I did it for Jess and Harold once.  Maybe I can do it once more, for Harold and in her memory._  

His mind raced.  He’d thought the war had been over for him for a long time, but maybe he’d been wrong.  He remembered how he’d been tortured by the Gestapo, and all the soldiers in his British Army unit in North Africa who’d never made it home.  Harry Boyce, Mark Pintor, Jake Steiner, Tommy Dean.  Later, there were Nick Compson and Donnall Greene, his closest friends in his SAS unit.  They'd been tough, smart, brave and funny, and Reese had loved them both.  But they'd been captured and shot by the Nazis shortly after they’d all parachuted into North Africa.  Killed, just like most of the men in his Army unit in North Africa had been, earlier.  So many good men, brave men he’d liked and counted on, all killed by the Germans.  And so many others -- soldiers whose names he didn’t even know, who’d just been bloody, crushed corpses in the sand after Rommel’s fucking Panzer divisions roared over them in Africa.  Later still, there were the Resistance fighters the Nazis had hung or shot in Morocco.  He'd seen so many dead at their hands...  And they were responsible for so many more.  He thought of pictures he’d seen too, of stick-thin corpses piled like cordwood in Nazi death camps in Europe.

He thought about Jessica again, too.  There was never a day when he didn't.  _We can’t bring back those they killed_ , Finch had said.  John knew who he meant by that, had heard the name Finch knew better, now, than to say to him. 

Jessica would approve, he thought.  She'd want me to help Finch.

She'd been so brave herself.  He’d offered to send her away to safety in America, but she’d just smiled at that idea.  _How could I leave you, John?  That would be cowardly.  And besides, what would my patients do without me?_   _With all the injuries from the bombings, London needs doctors and nurses more than ever now._   _And this is my country, my home.  I can't leave.  I have to do what I can to help, like you've always done._

So she’d stayed.  He thought of the soft lamps and candles she’d always lit for him during the blackout, creating a romantic glow behind their blackout curtains.  She’d tried so hard to make their little apartment into a cozy home, and he'd always loved being there because of that, because of her. 

He’d clung to her memory while he was away fighting.  Her bright eyes, her warm smile, the sweet taste of her skin.  How wonderful it had felt to be deep inside her, to see and feel the pleasure she took from his body, to revel in the love in her brown eyes, in her gentle touch and the soft sounds she’d made when he loved her.  He still ached sometimes, when he first woke from dreams of her and reached out sleepily, only to find that she wasn’t there beside him. 

Jessica, who’d been brave, intelligent, kind and beautiful.  Who'd been his love, his happiness, his heart, his whole life.  Jessica, who he would never see again because she’d been killed by a fucking German bomb.  Jessica, who he’d loved but failed to protect.

He owed the Nazis for her, most of all.  If he spent the rest of his life doing nothing but hunt them down, it wouldn't be enough to pay them back for taking Jessica away from him.  It would never fill up the hole her death had carved in his soul.

_But it’d be a start_ , he thought grimly.

For the first time in years, he thought about what he had to offer someone.  The codes and ciphers Finch had taught him, the foreign languages he'd learned and the fighting skills he’d picked up in the Army and the SAS would all come in handy for Finch’s plan.  He was fluent in French, German and Russian, too.  His Spanish was passable, and he could get better at it.  He’d always been a quick study at languages.  He was a good interrogator, strategist and tactitian, an expert at surveillance, breaking and entering and demolitions, proficient with all sorts of weapons, and a master at surviving tough situations.  And he already knew he’d love working with Finch.

He hadn't wanted to get involved with killing again, or with something that could get Harold killed.  But his instincts were telling him that he needed to get involved in this, in order to save Finch.

_I can protect him, too_.  _Did it once before, and I was good at it.  I saved him from the fucking S.S. once.  I can do it again._

At the very thought of that, something like the pride he’d once felt in himself years ago coursed through Reese again, mixed with grim determination. 

_Finch is the only friend I've got left.  I’ll protect him, or die trying_.

Hell, this was such an insane scheme, they might _both_ die trying it.  But if he didn’t do it, Harold would undoubtedly get arrested or killed -- probably pretty quickly.  Maybe it was unrealistic, but Reese felt that with him at his side, Finch would have a much better chance of surviving.  He just didn’t trust anyone else to protect Finch as well as he could.

A phrase came to mind, words he used to live by.  _Who dares, wins_.

Reese dared.  At last, he'd decided.  Harold needed him, and Jessica would want him to do this, to help innocents and keep Finch safe.  He was in, come hell or high water.

He finally lifted his head to look at Harold.  “A Hellhound, huh?” he said, with a feral smile.  _Your Hellhound_ , he thought, wondering at the intensity of the rush that gave him.  The idea of not just working for Harold, but _belonging_ to him -- it did something to him.  Something unexpected and powerful.  But he'd worry about that later.  Reese grinned a fierce, cold smile.  “I like the sound of that.”

Finch’s mouth curved in a slow, dangerous little smile of his own.  “I thought you might.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

*

Five days later, at 9:00 a.m. on a bright fall morning, Finch unlocked the door to one of the offices he'd rented in Manhattan.  When Reese followed him inside, Finch locked the door behind them and limped over to a large stack of files on a nearby desk.  “We need to decide where to begin our work.  Or more precisely, with whom.”

“How about Martin Bormann?” Reese suggested. 

“Hitler's personal secretary?”

“Yeah.  I've heard rumors that he's still alive.”

“He would've been a good choice, but in his case, I believe the rumors are false.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  According to reliable witnesses, Bormann left Hitler's bunker far too late to save himself.  The Red Army had invaded Berlin and completely surrounded the area of the Chancellory by then, and the fighting was intense.  I suspect Bormann found he had no way to escape, and was either killed by the Reds or took his own life.  I believe he probably ended up shoveled into a mass grave in that area, with other Berliners who were killed in the fighting by the Russians.”

“You seem pretty sure of that,” Reese observed.

“Fairly certain, yes.  You see, we know when Bormann departed the bunker.  The time was observed and independently corroborated by several Nazis who were shortly captured by the Russians themselves, before being turned over to the Americans.  So it's a fact that Bormann left during the fiercest fighting of the battle for Berlin, when the Russians were going house to house, killing everyone they could find.  There would've been no sanctuary for him then, no safe place to hide. 

Like the others in Hitler's bunker who left too late, if he'd lived, Bormann certainly would've wound up in Russian hands.  They wanted him badly, and they'd've trumpeted his capture to the world.  But the Red Army never found him.  So.  Given the circumstances, and the fact that no one has had a credible sighting of him since, I am certain that when he emerged from the bunker into the raging battle to take Berlin, disguised as he was in civilian clothing, he went unrecognized and was either shot or took his own life.”

“That makes sense,” Reese admitted, impressed with Finch's detailed knowledge of Bormann's last hours. 

“Yes.  Bormann was also a coward at heart, so I strongly suspect that he bit down on a cyanide pill to avoid capture and torture, if the Russians discovered his identity.  My guess is that his body will probably be found buried in Berlin someday, not far from the Chancellory.”

“Okay then.  If Bormann's already dead, then we need to choose another target.  You must have someone in mind, Finch,” Reese said shrewdly.

“Yes.”  Finch turned back to his files, pulled one off of the top and handed it to him.  “Here’s where I’d like to start our work.  With a man named Adolf Eichmann.”

“Who’s he?”

Finch looked grim.  “The man behind the implementation of the “Final Solution”.”

“Oh.”  John had heard that term before, knew its awful meaning.  “Good choice,” he said.  He took the file Finch held out to him, and frowned as he started to look through it.  “But there’s no –”

“Picture of him in my file,” Finch finished for him.  “I know.  There are reasons for that.  Eichmann was cannier than most upper echelon officers, and usually declined to have his photograph taken during the war.  And since knowledge of who was really behind the “Final Solution” was mostly confined to a few of Hitler’s most trusted associates --”

“And some of them died in the war,” Reese cut in.

“Yes, and since most of the others either disappeared afterwards or refused to name names until recently --”

“You just found out who was responsible, and haven’t had time to locate a picture of him yet,” Reese finished for him.

“Yes.  Yes, that's it exactly,”  Finch agreed, almost startled into a smile by the speed of Reese’s comprehension.  He felt both pleased and surprised.  This was going much better than he'd dared to hope.  They'd barely begun working together on their first case, and Reese was already finishing his sentences.  Was that a sign that Reese was thawing towards him, or perhaps that their old friendship was starting to revive?

 _Wait, be patient_.  Finch reined in the flutter of hope he felt, and cautioned himself not to be so eager.  Either their friendship would return in time, or it wouldn't.  He mustn't start looking for signs of it in every conversation he had with Mr. Reese, or he'd wind up disappointed.  It was far more likely that exchange had just been Reese's sharp intelligence at work, coupled with his far greater experience in the fieldwork side of espionage.  This was work that Reese knew, after all, better than he did. 

Finch was also grateful that John didn’t appear to have been drinking.  He seemed very alert and entirely intent on his new job.  For the moment, anyway.  They'd have to discuss the issue of his sobriety soon, but Finch had a plan in mind to deal with that.  In the meantime, he felt cautiously hopeful at Reese's temporary sobriety, and his obvious skill at espionage.

Reese gave him a sardonic look.  “Still, it’s pretty hard to hunt a ghost, Finch.”

“Indeed.  So that will be your first task, Mr. Reese:  to procure a picture of Eichmann for us.  Luckily, I know where you can get one.”  Finch handed him a plane ticket.  “Eichmann had a mistress in Vienna.  We’re flying there in the morning.”

He’d hoped that Reese would be pleased at having his first assignment.  But if he was, he showed no sign of it. 

“All right.”  He just nodded as he took the ticket from Finch, his face blankly stoic as usual. 

Finch realized with a pang that he’d hardly seen Reese smile at all, since they’d been reunited.  The few he had seen had been cruel, sarcastic smiles, that curled Reese's lips but didn't reach his eyes; more like a baring of teeth than a real expression of warmth or humor.

“What’s her name?” Reese asked.

“Frieda Reutz,” Finch answered absently.  “I’ve put her address in the file for you.  I’ll leave it up to you how you obtain his photograph from her, though I don’t imagine it should be too difficult…”

Finch's mind was on his operative rather than how Reese would accomplish his first task, which should be easy for a man of his abilities.  He noted that in only four days, Mr. Reese had already wrought positive changes in his appearance.  Though he was still too thin, now that he’d shaved off his beard and moustache, had a better haircut, a bath and (presumably) some decent meals, Reese already looked like a different man than the dirty, red-eyed vagrant whom Finch had met by the Hudson a few days ago.

With his dark hair washed, shiny and neatly cut short again, Reese's high cheekbones looked less gaunt, and without his ragged beard and moustache, the deep tan he’d acquired from living on the streets set off his blue eyes.  Despite the silver that now prematurely threaded the hair at his temples, and the rather haunted look that still showed in his eyes at times, Reese already looked handsome again, and younger than he had when Finch had first found him.  He no longer reeked of alcohol, either.  Instead, when Finch got close to Reese, his keen nose picked up the faint but enticing scent of some cologne that mingled sandalwood and citrus.  Reese not only looked better, he now smelled wonderful too.

The new clothes Finch had had his tailor make for Reese had also aided in the changes in his new partner.  Finch was pleased to see that Reese was already wearing one of the black suits he'd ordered for him, as well as a white silk shirt, black leather belt, and fine new black leather shoes.  Finch noted with pleasure that his tailor had done his usual superb job.  The new clothes fit Reese perfectly. 

Seeing John dressed in fine clothes that he'd chosen and paid for gave Finch a deep, secret sort of thrill he hadn't expected.  He didn't like himself for it, but he understood it.  Harold loved fine, hand-tailored clothing, and had a keen (though secret) appreciation of men's fashions.  He'd wanted John from the moment they met, and sadly, dressing him up was as close as he would ever get to being his lover.

Since he'd gotten so good at suppressing his hopeless feelings for John over the years, he'd decided he'd allow himself this one small indulgence.  It couldn't hurt anyone.  Reese would never know how he felt, and his new clothes had been a necessity in their work anyway. 

But he made a mental note to remind Reese to cut the tailor's tags from his clothing as soon as possible.  If he were ever captured by their enemies in future, Finch didn't want any clues on Reese that would lead them back to his New York tailor, his offices in Manhattan or ultimately, to him.  So far as the world knew, he was now living in France; and for both their sakes, it needed to stay that way.

Fine as they looked on him, Reese had been reluctant to accept his new clothes.  Anticipating that, as soon as Reese had agreed to work with him, Finch had given him reasons why he'd have to.  “As my partner, Mr. Reese, you'll now have sartorial standards to uphold.”  When Reese had rolled his eyes at that rather snobbish statement, as expected, Finch had added the clincher.

“Also, in espionage, it is essential to blend in.  To do that, you will need new clothes.  A proper haircut, too.”

Reese opened his mouth to protest, but Finch wasn't having any of it.  “You cannot go where I'll need you to go, or do what you'll need to do looking unkempt in old clothes, without attracting unwanted attention.  You know that perfectly well.”

“All right.  But I can pay for them --”

“Unnecessary.”  He'd handed Reese his tailor's card.  “I've taken care of all that.  Please visit Mr. Ferrano as soon as possible.  He's expecting you.  As for the haircut, I'll leave the choice of a barber up to you.  There's a good one on call at this hotel, for that matter.” 

Reese's mouth had hardened stubbornly.  “Finch --” 

“ _Please_ , Mr. Reese,” he'd urged.  “From my point of view, these are merely operating expenses, and small ones at that.  And as the senior partner in our new venture, it's my duty to cover them.  So consider such things a bonus, now and in future, for agreeing to work with me.  As you know, it will be extremely hazardous work, and you will be doing the physical side of it and taking the brunt of most of the risks yourself.  So you may need new clothes fairly often.  In future, please let me know when you do, and I will arrange for tailoring and whatever else you require, wherever we may be.  In return for your invaluable assistance, I wish to give you whatever advantages I can.”

Reese could hardly argue with that.  “Okay,” he'd sighed reluctantly.  “But nothing flashy.”

“Agreed.”  Finch knew an operative needed to blend in, not stand out.  Fortunately, dark suits were common for businessmen almost everywhere now, and recalling how handsome Sgt. Mars had always looked in them, it had pleased him that for once, the demands of his work dovetailed neatly with his private desire to see John dressed the way he remembered him.  He’d instructed his tailor accordingly.

That settled, Reese had finally given in, as Finch had calculated that he would, and visited his tailor and a barber as requested.  Though he’d never tell Reese, the truth was, he'd just wanted him to have good quality clothing and a well-groomed look again – not just for his new job, but for his own sake as well.  John deserved the best, and Finch meant to see that he got it.  He sincerely hoped Reese had tossed the odorous old rags he’d been wearing when they’d reunited, in a rubbish bin.

Seeing Mr. Reese transformed and looking much better already pleased Finch immensely; more than Reese would ever know.  That was what he'd really come to New York for, after all.  To save his old friend, to get John off the streets before it was too late.  To give him a job, and a purpose serious enough to distract him from his grief.  Dangerous though hunting Nazis would be, Finch couldn’t help but feel that even that task would be better for Reese than the aimless, poverty-stricken, drunken life he had been leading.  That hadn't been life at all, it'd been a kind of slow death.  It was a huge relief to him that so far, his plan to help his former bodyguard seemed to be working. 

Still, he realized belatedly that perhaps he’d left Reese too much to his own devices these past few days.  Once Reese had agreed to become his Hellhound, Finch had told him that he had a lot of things to take care of before they began work, and that he'd meet him at his Manhattan office in five days, at 9:00 a.m. 

In the meantime, he'd reserved a suite for Reese at his hotel, paid for it and given him a five hundred dollar advance on his salary as well.  He'd told him that once he’d finished being fitted for new clothes and getting a haircut, he was free to spend his time as he chose until they met again, to begin their work.  Knowing how amazingly self-sufficient Reese was, and how swamped he himself was going to be with preparations for their dangerous new task, Finch had thought that would suffice.  He'd also hoped it would give Reese time (and privacy) to clean himself up, get new clothes made and ready himself to start working.

Now he wondered how Reese had spent his time, and if he'd given him enough of it -- or too much.  Finch hadn't seen him once in the past five days.  He’d wondered what Reese had been up to, but hadn't wanted to seem patronizing or intrusive by checking up on him.  He'd only rung him once, on the evening of the third day.  When he'd asked after him, Reese had just said tersely, “I'm fine”, then hung up the phone. 

Harold had taken that as a sign that Reese wanted to be left alone, so he hadn't called or checked on him again.  He hadn't wanted Reese to feel smothered, or that he meant to keep his Hellhound on a short leash once they started working together.  Knowing Reese's fierce sense of independence, he'd reckoned that even a hint of that would send him running; and between that unfortunate incident with his bodyguards and that horrible tape he'd been forced to play for him, they'd already gotten off to a rough enough start as it was.  He knew Reese had resented his use of that tape, and had thought some time spent apart might help smooth things over.

Besides, he'd had a multitude of business affairs to wrap up and preparations to make before they began their work.  Meetings with lawyers, accountants, merchants and contacts.  Phone calls to make, letters to write, supplies to order -- the list of tasks was long, and since their work would be clandestine and had to be kept secret, Finch couldn’t trust the bulk of it to anyone else.  He had to handle almost all of it personally. 

He hadn't felt right about asking Reese to help.  He'd needed a bit of time to make changes in himself, for one thing.  For another, Reese would soon be taking on the hardest part of their work, at least in a physical sense.  Finch hadn't thought it fair to burden him with a mountain of administrative tasks at the start as well -- especially since they were likely to bore him.  Reese hadn’t objected or questioned his plan, and had showed up on time for their meeting this morning. 

But Finch suddenly realized that despite his vastly improved appearance, Mr. Reese still looked a little... tired?  Worn?  He was certainly far better dressed and handsomer, but the outer and inner man were two different things.  If one looked very closely, there were lines of strain around Reese's eyes and mouth. 

What had Mr. Reese been up to for the past five days, while he'd been so busy?  Given the burden of guilt and grief Reese carried, Finch had realized that perhaps leaving him to his own devices with a large sum of cash might cause problems.  What if, instead of taking in some harmless amusements, Reese had used the money to go on a drinking binge instead?  Finch had wanted to trust that he wouldn't, but also knew that it was an issue that needed to be faced right away, if that was still a temptation for John. 

He had no experience with the horrors John had been through in the war, though he’d done considerable reading lately on what psychiatrists now called “battle fatigue” and the mental consequences of torture, to try to prepare himself to help John. 

What he'd learned was disturbing.  Especially the fact that soldiers avoided asking for help with their post-combat mental problems.  Partly because the military taught them that even having such problems was weakness or worse, cowardice.  But also because they were worried about being locked away for years or even lobotomized, if they spoke up about them.  Finch had been appalled to learn that there were military hospitals in America which were actually performing such dreadful procedures on traumatized veterans now, as well as locking them away; and of course, word got around. 

Perhaps Reese had heard of those barbaric practices, and decided that drowning his sorrows in alcohol was safer than speaking to anyone about them.  Or maybe he never would've asked for help in any case, whether he knew about the barbaric surgeries or not.  His innate stoicism would also make him disinclined to ever speak of the internal wounds he bore.

Either way, Reese's silence wasn't good.  Finch had read that the more humane psychiatrists felt that ex-soldiers needed to talk about their wartime experiences in order to exorcise their fear and pain, not have their brains mutilated.  Finch concurred.  He thought of a line from Macbeth:  “ _Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o’er wrought heart and bids it break_.”  Exactly.  And since his old friend had grown grimly silent, Harold couldn’t help but feel that he might need some help in finding a way to talk about his wartime experiences. 

John Reese had seen and done terrible things, which were part of the reason he'd begun drinking, Finch was sure.  But John was still highly intelligent, extremely perceptive and capable -- even lethal.  More importantly, no matter what he'd done or would do in future, John was still his friend.  Now that his wife was gone and he seemed to be all alone, Harold meant to care for him.

 _No one is ever going to perform such ghastly surgery on John's brain, under the guise of 'helping him',_ Finch thought, shuddering. _Not as long as I'm alive to prevent it.  I believe he doesn't need surgery or pills.  He needs someone to care for him, and he needs a purpose.  I want to give him both those things._

Still, it was clear that John's heart, his emotions and outlook had been severely damaged by his time in the SAS, and by the loss of his wife.  Though he knew it might be difficult or even impossible, he resolved to try to get Reese to talk a bit about the war in future, to try to undo that damage.  He knew that Reese would probably never willingly discuss Jessica Mars, but the war might be different.  Or perhaps Harold could convince the ex-soldier to write his experiences down.  That might suit Reese more than discussing them out loud, and he'd read that keeping a private journal could also be very helpful in dealing with the fears and anguish soldiers often carried with them...

Yes; a journal might be just the thing, the ideal way to help John deal with his past.  Finch resolved to get him one as soon as possible, and encourage him to write about his experiences.  He wanted to help John regain at least some of his old self, his formerly sunny nature and happiness.  He longed to see him smile again; real smiles, not the cold, cruel ones he'd sported lately. 

Harold's own preference for men had forced him into an often lonely life, and he’d learned to find solace in books and learning.  The life of the mind.  But John Reese, when he’d been John Mars, was a much more physical person:  an athletic soldier in superb physical condition.  Mars had been much more social and gregarious, too.  John had often flirted charmingly with the clerks at Bletchley who'd found excuses to deliver memos to Finch personally, once the handsome Sgt. Mars became his bodyguard.  He’d been kind and generous, too; because when his legions of female admirers began bringing John tea and scones in a further effort to charm him, he'd somehow convinced them to give the food to Harold instead.  He also remembered Sgt. Mars mentioning poker games with his SAS squad, and that he used to love going to nightclubs with his wife and friends in London, to have dinner and “drink and dance the night away” before the war started.

He suddenly wondered if John Reese had had any friends at all, while he was living on the streets in New York.  Well, he has one now, Finch thought firmly, and I mean to help him in every way I can.

“All right.  I’ll see you at seven a.m. tomorrow, then,” Reese said.  “We’ll have to be a bit early, if we’re going to make that flight.”

As Reese turned for the door, his plane ticket to Austria tucked carefully in his pocket, Finch took a step forward.  “Have dinner with me tonight, Mr. Reese,” he said.  It wasn't done on impulse.  Harold had planned it, as they had important things to discuss.

But Reese didn't seem to appreciate that.  He swung around, something dark glinting in his eyes.  “Is that an _order_ , Mr. Finch?”

His tone was mild, but edged with a cruel sort of amusement that made Finch uneasy.  As if Mr. Reese was tempted to show him in what little regard he held Finch’s orders, or how incredibly easy it would be for him to actually incapacitate Finch if he chose.  Harold felt a stab of anger, but resisted the temptation to ask if he needed to _make_ his invitation an order.  Sparring with Reese would've been both foolish and counter-productive.  Besides, he supposed the phrasing of his invitation had been rather terse, more like a command than an invitation.  But they needed to get used to each other again, among other things, and dinner would be a good way to start.

“No, it was an invitation.  Please, Mr. Reese,” he said carefully, “will you do me the favor of accompanying me to dinner tonight?”

Reese blinked at him, surprise showing around the edges of his wariness.  Finch felt a pang, wondering how long it had been since anyone had invited him to dinner, or even kept him company while he ate.  Another, older grief stabbed him and he thought how, if things had been different, he’d’ve wanted to share his last meal before leaving to begin his dangerous new project with Nathan, too. 

Finch wondered if he'd let some trace of that sadness show, because Reese’s eyes narrowed and searched his face, which exasperated him.  It seemed Reese had become so wary, even of him, that even something as innocent as a dinner invitation was now cause for suspicion.

 _Remember, he was betrayed by his own partner in the SAS, tortured, and then prosecuted by the military he’d given his allegiance to_ , Finch reminded himself.  _He lost his beloved wife and has been living a miserable, solitary existence for the past few years, trying to numb his pain with alcohol._   _Small wonder he now finds it difficult even to trust me_.  _At least he’s agreed to work with me.  Given everything that happened to him, I’m extremely fortunate that he did_.  _It's early days yet, and I mustn’t expect too much from him, too soon.  I'll have to earn his trust again, and that won't be easy._

As an awkward silence fell between them, Harold shrugged, trying to think of a way to explain his offer that Reese would accept.  He considered telling him the truth; that he wanted to celebrate their new joint venture, as it were, over dinner.  But the cold way Reese’s eyes bored into his, as if he thought some dark ulterior motive for Finch’s invitation might be found in them if he only stared hard enough, discouraged Finch from using the word “celebrate”.  Though it was what he intended, he doubted that Reese would believe it.

“It’s just that I dislike eating alone,” Finch added finally. 

There were a lot of things Reese could’ve said to that.  For a moment, Finch could’ve sworn he was considering a rather nasty and disbelieving reply.  But if he was, he changed his mind.  “All right,” Reese said tersely at last, with a little shrug. 

“Good.  I'll be glad of your company,” Finch said, smiling gratefully.  He received a wary look in reply, and tried not to take it personally.  This was, he supposed, a bit like trying to gain the trust of a wild animal.  Recalling how Reese had reminded him of a wounded lion when they'd reunited, he thought wryly that perhaps it was just as well that he'd offered him food, to begin with.  “Will seven o’clock be all right?”

Reese shrugged indifferently again.  “Sure.”

“Excellent.  I’ll meet you in the lobby then.”

Dinner, however, didn't go as well as Finch had hoped.  Guessing that a very formal, expensive restaurant might make Reese uncomfortable, Finch chose a smaller one he knew of, which still had an excellent chef.  Finch's chauffer drove them there, and though the rear seat of his Rolls was quite roomy, Reese edged as far away from Finch as he could during the trip, and stared silently out of the window.  Finch sighed to himself, wondering which of them that distance was meant to protect. 

Once they arrived at Maxim's, they both ordered steak and salad; or rather, Finch ordered it and Reese merely nodded his head and did the same without looking at the menu, as if the food didn't interest him. 

Finch wondered briefly why he'd come if that was true, but pushed the thought aside.  He'd been busy with preparations and minutia for days and wanted to relax for a bit, to enjoy himself and to revel in John's presence by his side.  It'd been so long, and he'd often feared that the young soldier would be killed in Africa, and that he'd never see him again...  Yet here they were, survivors of a terrible war, reunited again after three long years, and about to begin working together.  It was amazing.

And despite the many times Reese had been betrayed, he'd still trusted him enough to take on extremely dangerous work at his side.  Finch knew that was a huge compliment, and mattered more than Reese's taciturn manner.  Tired though he was, he felt a little thrill, a stirring of excitement at the thought of actually working with Reese. 

Yet he also knew that caring for John was now his privilege and responsibility.  He considered it a sacred task, and felt an enormous pressure to get it right.  But it might, he thought hopefully, also turn out to be fun.  Having John as his bodyguard while he'd headed Coding and Cyphers at Bletchley during the war, had turned out to be immensely fulfilling.  Despite its risks, perhaps his new project would be too.  John had once had an immense capacity for happiness and affection.  Perhaps, if Harold could help him stop drinking and begin to heal, he could eventually regain some of his former happiness. 

Perhaps one day, Harold thought wistfully, if I am extraordinarily lucky, I'll be able to make John laugh and smile again.  

In hope of that, and as this was, after all, a very special occasion, Harold automatically ordered them a bottle of 1935 Lafitte Rothschild in order to celebrate it. 

But after he placed the order, as the waiter left to fill it, Finch belatedly realized the terrible mistake he'd just made and froze, feeling sick.  He could’ve kicked himself.  He was very tired, and had thought only of using the wine to make a toast to their new venture, an old custom he and Nathan had observed for years whenever they’d begun a new joint project.  Somehow, unforgivably, Reese's alcohol problem had slipped his mind for an instant.  How could I forget that? he berated himself, anguished and embarrassed.  There was no way to cancel the order at that point, however, without being glaringly obvious.

When the wine was served, he wondered if he should apologize for his terrible thoughtlessness.  Thankfully however, Mr. Reese didn't react to his mistake, so Finch decided to stay silent about it as well. 

Reese ate little, though Finch was relieved to note that he didn't touch his wine glass either, he just sipped his water.  But the tiny glance he stole at Reese's wine glass when Reese appeared to be gazing about the room, produced another unpleasant smile from him.

Reese said sarcastically, “I haven't touched it, Finch.  It's been _five days_ since I had a drink.  The alcohol's out of my system now, see?”  He held up a steady hand.  “No more shakes, so no worries.”

Finch stared at him.  “Oh, _John_ ,” he breathed, stunned and appalled by his old friend’s casual revelation that he’d already quit drinking, entirely on his own.

Reese just looked away, with the slightest of shrugs.  Obviously, he didn't want to discuss what he'd done.  But his tiny shrug concealed what Finch suspected had been a terrible ordeal.  Now that he knew the truth, Finch was shocked and doubly embarrassed at having been caught doubting him.  He'd forgotten how sharp Reese's blue eyes were, how incredibly, eerily observant he was.  He took in everything around him, even when he seemed to be looking elsewhere.  Finch supposed he should've guessed, Reese being who he was, that he’d stop drinking the moment he agreed to join him in hunting Nazis, too. 

But Harold hadn't expected that.  He'd assumed that John Mars' former strength of will might've been eroded by the events of the past few years.  Clearly he'd been wrong.  John's will was evidently just as formidable as ever -- so strong that once Harold offered him a job, he'd chosen to give up alcohol at once, all alone, without saying a word to him about it.   

It only made Harold more embarrassed about his own behavior.  Not only that he'd been thoughtless in both ordering wine and letting his doubts show, but because his failure to foresee this or to check in more thoroughly with his new partner in the past few days, had led Reese to endure something as terrible as giving up alcohol completely, all alone.  He told himself never to make that mistake again.

 _No more shakes_ meant that there had been shakes -- and probably pain, sweating, nausea, vomiting, nightmares and even hallucinations, too.  Finch was aware of how extremely difficult it was for a habitual drinker to regain sobriety.  After his p.i.'s had reported Reese's drinking problem, he'd researched the symptoms of alcohol recovery as well, and looked up the best physicians in New York who treated it.  He'd meant to have Reese see a doctor he'd found who specialized in that before they began their work, to gradually wean him off of his dependence on liquor.  It was one of the things he'd meant to discuss with him tonight, over dinner.  He'd never imagined that Reese would attempt to regain sobriety immediately, without even mentioning it or asking for any assistance with it, either.

I should've anticipated that possibility, Finch thought again, doubly ashamed at having failed John twice.  Mars had been a superb soldier who took his duty very seriously, and who'd always been swift to act upon it.  Apparently, that part of him hadn't changed.

 _As soon as I asked him to join me in my project, he must've felt that his first duty was to become sober_.

Too late, Finch understood why Reese hadn't contacted him for the last few days.  While Finch had plowed through his avalanche of meetings, purchases and last-minute arrangements, he'd naively imagined (he'd hoped) that John might spend some of the money he'd given him on entertainment.  Take in some movies, maybe a Broadway show or two, and dine out a bit.  He'd hoped he would indulge himself, do some pleasant things which his former poverty had made impossible. 

Instead, other than the visits he'd requested that John make to his tailor and a barber, he now suspected that Reese must've been shut up in his hotel room for most, if not all of those five days, enduring the brutal effects of quitting his drinking habit all alone.  The terrible physical suffering involved would've made him vulnerable, so of course he'd locked himself away.  He must've gotten so sick, Harold thought, appalled by how much John must've suffered.  He wasn't sure if Reese had chosen not to tell him out of pride, or embarrassment, or because he still didn't trust him -- or all of the above.  He was sure that the terrible suffering John must've undergone wasn't the sort of thing he would've wanted anyone else to see. 

It saddened him that Reese had shut him out of it, all the same.  Partly because the doctor he'd so carefully chosen to help Reese, specialized in making regaining sobriety as painless and humane as possible.  Finch had wanted Reese to see him, precisely so he could spare his old friend the agonies he must've just gone through.  They explained the rather strained look around John's eyes and mouth, though. 

Finch wondered just how bad it had been.  He knew Reese would never tell him, but from the reading he'd done, his consult with Dr. Neal and the traces of pain still showing on his friend's face, he suspected that it'd been truly awful.  Possibly even life-threatening. 

The thought chilled him, the more so because he knew Reese had done this terrible thing at least partly for him, so that he could function at peak efficiency as his operative, and start working right away. 

Finch hadn't expected that of him.  Dear God, he thought, shaken.  I should've told him sooner!  I could've lost him before we even started working together...

Feeling so bad that he hardly knew what to say, Finch tried to reassure his new partner of his faith in him.  “I'm sorry for doubting you about that, Mr. Reese.  I meant to help--”

That just earned him a cold, disbelieving curl of Reese's lip.  Or perhaps it was a sneer at the very idea that Reese would ever need help from anyone, for anything.  Harold wasn't sure; he just knew the look made him feel even worse.  In place of his formerly charming smiles, it seemed Reese had acquired a whole repertoire of unpleasant expressions during the past few years.  Small wonder, given the wretched life he'd been living.  Still, Finch found himself missing John Mars' easy, sunny smiles, his warmth and trust profoundly. 

If I'd still had his trust, Finch thought sadly, I could've spared him that awful ordeal.  I'd've gotten him expert help, if he'd only let me...

While Finch struggled with his sadness and regrets, Mr. Reese seemed to have forgotten the subject of his ordeal entirely.  He went back to scanning the room silently and methodically.  Though he didn't turn his head, his gaze moved restlessly about, taking in everyone and everything around them, no doubt searching for any hint of a threat.  A habit he must've acquired in the SAS.

That observation led Finch to another:  Reese had also chosen to sit with his back to a wall, where he could survey the whole room, and no one could sneak up behind him.

Oh my, Harold thought, half interested, half appalled.  That's not necessary here, we haven’t even started our work yet!  Then again, his research on the after-effects of both battle fatigue and torture had listed hyper-alertness and paranoia as common symptoms.  So perhaps this sort of behavior had become normal for Reese, though it saddened Finch to think so. 

Still, he’d already unintentionally insulted and ignored his operative, to John's great detriment.  Harold wasn’t about to add to those mistakes by accusing him of paranoia as well.  Besides, what's done was sadly done, and he couldn't change what Reese had gone through.  He could, however, help him recover from it; and he was more worried about the fact that his old friend wasn’t eating.  Was Reese still suffering from the ordeal he'd just gone through to stop drinking?  Was he still too sick to eat?

“You've hardly touched your food, Mr. Reese.  Would you rather have something else?” he asked, choosing his words carefully so as not to insult Reese any more.

“No.”  Clearly uninterested in either his steak or explaining his lack of appetite, Reese went back to surveying the room.  “Did you have someone following me, Finch?”

Finch paused, both at the sudden change of subject and the deceptively casual tone Reese had used to ask the question.  Speaking of paranoia, he thought wryly.  He’d also noticed how Reese had avoided talking about his refusal to eat, but decided to let it go for now.  If Reese was still suffering from nausea, he’d find out soon enough.  For the moment, he wasn’t about to try to force him to eat.  He also knew Reese had a right to know if he’d had him surveilled.  However, Reese was too smart not to have guessed that already, even if he'd been too drunk to notice it happening at the time.  So why was he asking? 

“Yes.  It was the only way to find you, so I hired someone to do that.  Two private investigators, actually.  I --”

“Do you trust them?” Reese interrupted.

Finch frowned, realizing that something must've happened recently which Reese hadn't shared with him.  Something unpleasant, which he viewed as a betrayal.  That's why Reese was asking questions he already knew the answers to -- it was an interrogation technique Finch recognized.  If Reese caught Finch in a lie, he'd have some evidence that Harold had been involved in it, whatever 'it' was.  Reese was _testing_ him -- unsure of his loyalty. 

“Why?”  Anger turned Finch's voice cool.  Why couldn't Reese accept that he truly only wanted to help him?

“Could one of them have told someone else that you were looking for me?”

 _Oh no_.  The implications of that were chilling.  Finch sat back in his chair, stunned and dismayed a second time.  He'd hoped that his search for the former Sgt. John Mars would remain private.  Yet anyone involved in intelligence work knew that secrets were hard to keep.  He'd told the p.i.'s he'd hired  to find John as quickly as possible, and given them a photo to aid in their task.  He'd told them to be discreet, but also that time was of the essence.  He'd finally had his plans in place, and wished to find Mars, rescue him and begin hunting Nazis as soon as possible. 

Given the pressure he'd put on the investigators to locate John, he'd known that one of them might talk, or show his picture around in the wrong place.  He'd just felt that the possibility they might reveal their search in order to find him faster was a small but acceptable risk.  It had seemed highly unlikely that Reese would be endangered by it.  Since he'd fought and spied far away in North Africa, Finch had assumed that his enemies, if any had even survived the war, wouldn't know that John had gone to New York, let alone have followed him here.  But perhaps he'd erred in that assumption.

“I asked them to be discreet, but it's possible.  Did someone else _find_ you, Mr. Reese?”

Reese held his eyes, his face impassive but his gaze intent.  “Mark Snow.  Right before your bodyguards picked me up.”

“Leftenant _Snow_?  Good God!”  Just hearing his name was a rather unpleasant shock.  The fact that Mark Snow had somehow located Reese before Finch had was extremely unsettling.  Finch hadn't known that Snow was even in New York.  After arranging to have him sent to the front years ago, he'd had Snow watched for a time.  But since he'd ceased stealing Army supplies and showed no signs of blaming Finch for his transfer or of seeking revenge for it, Finch had discontinued his surveillance, and Snow had 'fallen off of his radar', as the saying went.  He hadn't thought of the man in years, hadn't known or cared if he'd survived the war. 

He fell silent for a moment, both relieved and appalled as he considered the news.  He was relieved that the person who'd found Reese wasn't a more dangerous opponent, but appalled because Reese hadn't mentioned it, because Snow had always hated Finch, and because he could be working for someone else -- someone who was more dangerous.

“Why didn't you tell me?”  It was Finch's turn to ask obvious questions, to probe.  Reese clearly hadn't trusted him, had been trying to ascertain if he'd hired Snow, and if they were somehow working against him --

No, Finch realized, his agile mind leaping ahead.  Reese already _knew_ that he hadn't hired Snow.  He must've used some of his free time, in the past few days, to track Snow down and assure himself of that, or he wouldn't even be here.  He'd've left already.  While relieved that Reese hadn't taken off despite his suspicions, Finch was still concerned that a possible enemy had learned of his search for Reese, and perhaps also learned of their reunion and whereabouts in the process.

Reese shrugged with apparent carelessness.  “I just did.”

Finch dabbed at his lips with his napkin at that, buying himself time while secretly wrestling with his temper.  Reese was testing him, he knew.  How he dealt with pressure, with bad news...  And testing his boundaries, his strength as well.  He also sensed that if he just let this go, Reese would not respect him.

“Which means you've already paid Mr. Snow a visit,” he said coolly.  “What did you do to him?” he asked, his mind racing through possibilities and consequences.  He had no doubt Reese had done something to Snow; he just hoped he hadn’t killed the man.  Since Reese had been homeless at the time, even if he had and the police had been given his description, it wasn’t likely that they could find him.  Still, though he bore no fondness for Snow, the thought of unnecessary deaths connected to their work appalled him.  And a police search for Reese would be an unwanted complication, before they’d even begun their work.

Reese didn't smile, but there was a glimmer of something like approval in his gaze, at Finch's quick understanding.  The glimmer in his eye broadened into a smirk as he shrugged slightly again.  “I may have mentioned that it wouldn't be wise for him or his buddies to talk about seeing me in future,” he rasped.

Finch knew bloody well that Reese had done more than just 'mention it'.  He remembered John had always disliked Snow, and wondered with a shudder if thumbscrews had been involved in his 'visit'; or if he should even ask.

“Don’t worry, Finch.  Snow is still breathing.”

It wasn’t much in the way of reassurance, Harold thought, his eyes narrowing as he realized that on some level, Reese was obviously amused by all this.  By the fact that Snow, of all people, had found him and that it had given him an excuse to terrorize Mark; and by the little game he'd just played with Finch too, to make absolutely sure he wasn't working with Snow.  Well.  Sgt. John Mars had always had a keen sense of humor.  Finch supposed he should be grateful that at least that much of his old friend still remained, hidden behind Reese's dark exterior.

He told himself that, but couldn't quite manage it because Reese's amusement was so cold, because it was partly at his expense, and because he was still so distrustful.  Harold found it hard to control his own hurt and anger at that.  He hadn't missed the mention of Snow's 'buddies', either.  Just what the bloody hell had happened?  How many people were involved, and how much was Reese not telling him?  He kept from lashing out, but just barely.  “I see.  Is there anything _else_ I need to know about this, Mr. Reese?  Are you sure that it's no longer a problem?”

“You don’t need to worry, Finch.  It wasn’t some kind of conspiracy; and I handled it,” Reese answered, still with the same faint trace of amusement.

At that, Finch finally lost his temper.  “What ‘worries me’, Mr. Reese, is that this means we may already have been exposed to an unknown enemy, yet you didn’t even see fit to tell me any of it when it happened!” he snapped, goaded beyond endurance.

Reese fixed him with a level look, unmoved.  “I hadn’t even seen you yet when it happened.  In fact, I didn’t even know you were in New York then.”

“Granted.  But don’t be coy, Mr. Reese!  We met soon after, in fact we met several times.  So you’ve had ample time to tell me of this, and yet you -–”

“What is this, Finch?” Reese rasped.  His voice was still quiet, but his eyes had gone cold.  “An interrogation?”

Finch scoffed.  “Hardly.”

Reese’s mouth curled wolfishly again.  “You could’ve fooled me.  In any case, here’s what you need to know:  Mark was the only one of them who knew either of us, or that you were looking for me.  He ran into one of your p.i.'s in a bar, or he wouldn't have known that either of us were here, or that you were looking for me.  Then he ran into me near his favorite bar.  It was an accident and trust me, he and his friends' interest began and ended with kicking my ass, ‘cause they get their kicks rousting drunks.  And now that I’ve had a chat with him, he’s more than happy to forget that he ever saw me; and he’ll make sure his friends do the same.  That’s all there was to it.  But if you don’t trust me…” 

Reese’s shrug was deceptively casual, but his gaze was still cold, and Finch heard the underlying threat in his words.  If he refused to accept Reese's belated explanation for the incident, he would just walk away, abandoning Finch and his project.

Finch reined himself in, relieved that the incident hadn't been more serious but dismayed by Snow's motives, his implied assault on Reese and by Reese's reaction to his disapproval. 

He let out a breath and regained his self-control.  “Of course I trust you.  I'm also relieved that you seem to be unharmed.  But in future,” he said sternly, “if something like this happens, I expect you to inform me promptly, so we can deal with it together.  No more secrets, Mr. Reese.” 

Reese eyed him moodily.  For a moment, he didn’t answer.  Then he smiled unpleasantly.  “Coming from you, Finch, that’s funny.”

Touché.  Finch pursed his lips and dropped his gaze for a minute, exasperated yet unable to refute the jibe.  He knew far more about Reese, after all, than Reese knew about him.  He had from the beginning.  He’d learned to keep secrets in childhood, and despite his unrequited feelings for John, he’d never shared any of his past with him. 

But this unpleasant argument, these unexpected revelations and mistrust on both sides, wasn’t the way he’d wanted this dinner to go at all.  However, he’d said he trusted Reese, so he’d either have to accept his explanation and his handling of the situation, or give up on their new partnership.  And he had no intention of doing that.  Reminding himself again of how much Reese had gone through and how often he’d been betrayed, he fumbled for words, for a way to get past his anger and their disagreement and reach out to his new partner.  “I know you're used to being alone, John, and handling everything yourself.  But...  What I mean is, things are different now.  You're not alone anymore, and I hope you know that you can turn to me for help, should you ever –” 

Perhaps it was too little, too late, because his awkward attempt to smooth things over between them backfired.

Reese surged to his feet, throwing his napkin down.  “That's not what you mean.  You're feeling sorry for me, Finch,” he said coldly.  He leaned down, his eyes dark and angry as they bored into Harold.  “ _Don’t!_ I can still handle myself.”

Clearly, despite his grief and his poverty-stricken life on the streets, Reese had retained a soldier's fierce sort of pride and independence.  The way he'd chosen to break his drinking habit on his own and that angry outburst proved it.  Finch respected that, and he hadn't meant to trample on his pride, but to remind him of their friendship. 

“I know that.  Please, Mr. Reese!” he protested, but it was too late.  In a blink, Reese straightened and was gone, narrowly avoiding a collision with a passing waiter in his haste to leave.  Startled diners around them gazed curiously at his rapidly retreating back.

Harold winced as he watched him go.  He wanted to go after him, but after a moment, thought better of it.  Reese was already angry, mistakenly believing that Finch pitied him.  Chasing after him would only worsen that misapprehension.  He felt a flicker of fear, though, wondering if Reese had left for good.  He just had to hope that he hadn't. 

He looked down at Reese's plate and felt even worse when he saw that the ex-soldier had hardly touched his dinner.  He hated the thought of John going hungry any longer, yet he'd just driven him away.

Finch closed his eyes and sighed, filled with bitter regret.   _Bloody hell!  First that blunder with the wine, then finding out that John quit drinking all alone, and now this mess with Snow...  I don’t think I could've handled it all any worse if I'd tried._  

Finch opened his eyes again and toyed half-heartedly with his steak, brooding.  Reese hadn’t been entirely wrong -- Finch was sorry for the damage that life had done to him, and for his own inadvertent part in that.  But he wasn’t wholly right either, because pity hadn't been Harold’s motive for inviting him to dinner.  Concern would describe it better; and Harold had also genuinely wanted Reese's company on this, what he'd meant to be one of the last nights before they began Reese's recovery from alcohol, and then their hazardous mission. 

He'd meant to have Reese see Dr. Neal next, to help him regain sobriety.  But since he'd already accomplished that on his own, Finch supposed that they could proceed with their work immediately.

If Reese was still willing to anyway, after that disastrous dinner.  Finch decided to call him later to find out.  He sighed to himself again, wishing that his first attempt to socialize with the ex-soldier hadn't gone so badly.  He longed to restore their old friendship, to regain Reese's trust.  It didn’t help that Reese knew him so well, while despite their old acquaintance, he felt that Reese was almost a stranger to him now.  A fierce, daunting stranger in whose cold, forbidding face he was forever searching unsuccessfully for traces of John Mars' sparkling blue eyes, humor and friendly smiles.

 _He used to do more than just trust me.  He used to be **fond** of me_ , Harold thought sadly.  _I think I miss that, most of all._

He tried to devote his attention to his dinner after that, in an effort to lighten his mood.  The steak really was excellent, but he’d lost his appetite.  After eating half of it, he gave up the effort and just sipped his wine, thinking.  Was this risky enterprise really going to work?  The one thing he hadn’t counted on when he’d made all his plans, was that John Mars would've changed so profoundly.  He hadn't foreseen that.

Suddenly, absurd though it was, he found himself wistfully remembering the days when Reese used to teasingly call him 'sir'.  At the time, that had often annoyed him.  Now, he'd've given anything to hear it again, and see the fond, teasing smile that had usually accompanied it.  Since they'd reunited, Reese just grated 'Mr. Finch' or 'Finch' at him -- like they were strangers.

In a way, they were.  Mr. Reese was someone altogether different than Sgt. John Mars, the happy, helpful, protective soldier Finch had once known.  Reese was dark, wary, suspicious and fierce, so changed that Finch couldn’t help wondering if they would even be able to work together successfully now. 

_I suppose only time will tell._

But as Finch paid the bill shortly afterwards, mentally reviewing their ill-fated dinner again, it occurred to him that perhaps things weren't as dark as all that, after all.  Maybe Reese really hadn't changed completely; perhaps he'd merely interpreted some of his actions incorrectly.  The seat he'd chosen, the way his eyes had scanned the room while they talked -- perhaps that hadn't merely been paranoia or self-defense, as he'd first assumed.  Perhaps Reese had actually meant to protect _him_.  Perhaps he’d assumed that Harold had hired him, at least in part, to serve as his bodyguard again, and he’d silently slipped into his old role already, without mentioning it.

Oh dear, Finch thought.  That isn't what I intended. If it's true, I'll have to have a talk with him about it...

But when he called Reese later that night, the subject never came up.  Instead, to his surprise, before he could apologize, Reese did so.  “I was out of line at dinner, Finch,” he said, his voice even lower than usual.  “Sorry.  But if you still want me to work for you--”

“Yes, of course I do.  Not _for_ me, Mr. Reese,” Harold said gently, “but I would be honored if you would work _with_ me.”

Reese let out what sounded like a sigh of relief.  “Okay,” he said simply.

Finch breathed a sigh of relief of his own.  Reese had evidently decided to give him a second chance, and he was grateful.  “Thank you,” he smiled.  “I'll meet you in the lobby tomorrow morning then, at six a.m.  My driver will take us to the airport.”

“Okay, Finch.  See you then.”

 

*

Two days later, in a train station in Hietzing, a Western district of Vienna, Frieda Reutz was accosted by a small, wiry blonde man who grabbed her purse.  “ _Stop!  Come back here, you thief!_ ” she shrieked, as he ran off with it.  “You come back here with that!  Help me!  Someone stop him, he stole my purse!”

Before the thief got very far, a tall man stepped out of a nearby group of people and with just a few swift blows, knocked the purse snatcher off of his feet and planted a black leather boot calmly on his chest, to hold him down.  “Help!  Police!” he called loudly.  “This thief just tried to steal this woman’s purse!”

As Frieda watched, a policeman hurried toward them. 

Her benefactor then bent over the fallen man he was still holding pinned under his boot.  “I believe,” he said cheerfully, “that this doesn't belong to you.  Allow me to return it to its rightful owner.”  With that, he yanked her purse strap out of the thief’s hands.

While Frieda was still staring in surprise, the tall dark-haired man held out her purse.  “Fraülein,” he nodded, smiling politely.  “I think this is yours.”

“Thank you very –” _much_ , Frieda started to say.  But as her rescuer handed her the purse, the little thief rolled hard to one side, making the dark-haired man stumble as he slipped free. 

“Hey!”  Her good Samaritan lunged at the purse snatcher, but he’d been knocked slightly off balance, and he missed.  The thief evaded him, scrambled quickly to his feet and ran off again. 

“ _Stop, thief!_ ”  The policeman blew his whistle and ran off in hot pursuit.

The stranger who’d helped her moved to Frieda’s side, looking concerned.  “Are you all right, Fraülein?” he asked. “That thief didn't hurt you, did he?”

Frieda blushed a little in spite of herself.  Now that she'd gotten a good look at the man who'd gotten her purse back, she felt a bit dazzled.  He was tall and looked about thirty, with dark hair that showed threads of silver at his temples, high cheekbones and deep-set blue eyes.  He was strikingly handsome, and his gaze was fixed on her with flattering intensity.  She noted with pleasure that he spoke fluent German, too.  “No, I’m fine.  Thank you for your assistance, sir,” she said, her distress fading in the light of his charming smile as she took her purse back.  “That terrible man…  I don't know what I would've done, without your help.”

The stranger frowned in the direction the thief had run off in.  They could still see the policeman pursuing him in the distance, though the thief seemed to be outrunning him.  “Ja.  The war may be over, but there are still many desperate people about these days,” the handsome stranger agreed.

Frieda patted at her hair, hoping she didn't look disheveled.  “I suppose that’s true…  But forgive me, I haven’t even thanked you yet -- Herr...?”

Her rescuer smiled at her again, and Frieda was so taken by his good looks, she didn't notice that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “Halzen.  Franz Halzen, at your service,” he answered politely. 

“Ahh,” she murmured, pleased again.  “A good German name…”

“Jawhol,” he smiled. 

“Thank you so much, Herr Halzen,” she said gratefully.

“No need for thanks, it was my pleasure.”  Her rescuer bowed slightly and clicked his heels together with military precision.  He must've been in the German army, she realized with a little thrill.  It would certainly explain that gesture, and the swift, self-assured way he'd gone after that thief.  He'd caught him, knocked him down and gotten her purse back in less than a minute, she thought admiringly.  “My name is Frieda Reutz, and I'm in your debt, Herr Halzen.” 

“Nonsense.”  He waved a hand, modestly dismissing his own heroics.  “It was nothing.  I was happy to help.”

“Well then…”

Seeing that he was about to move on, and not wanting to lose her chance to get better acquainted with her handsome white knight, Frieda seized the moment.  “I wonder, sir, if I might be so bold as to ask --”

“Certainly.  If there is any other way I can help you, I'll be happy to,” he smiled.

“Well, I was wondering...  Is there any chance that you might be taking the train to Donaustadt?  I live on the Eastern side of town.  I'm still a bit nervous, but if I were not traveling alone, I'd feel much safer.”

'Herr Halzen' gave her another easy smile. “Fortunately, I'm heading there too.  I would be pleased to accompany you, Fraülein.”

“Wonderful.  Thank you again.”  She flushed with pleasure at that bit of good luck.  _What a charming, polite man_ , she thought, _and so very handsome_.  _He has such beautiful eyes..._   They were a lovely shade of blue, and his lashes were coal black and thick.  His shoulders were broad, and she'd already seen how strong he was, and how protective he could be.

Not once did she suspect that her tall, dashing, handsome rescuer had given her a false name.  Or that he'd paid two unemployed actors to enact the roles of thief and policeman just now:  one to steal her purse, lose it and seemingly be chased away by the other.  All so that John Reese could get it back, and act the part of a hero to gain her confidence.

And when Herr Halzen paid for a cab ride home for her from the train station in Donaustadt later, and then insisted on accompanying her inside her apartment by teasing, “I always see pretty young women to their doors,” she had no reason to suspect that it was her apartment he'd truly wanted access to all along. 

But an hour later, when she was feeling relaxed and happy from the wine they'd been drinking while they chatted in her living room, she noticed that he seemed interested in the picture she'd showed him of her fiancé, Adolf.

“What is it,” she teased him gently, “are you jealous?”

He grinned.  “Well.  Maybe just a little.  But perhaps I should've guessed that such an attractive woman would already be spoken for.” 

Frieda smiled at the charming way he'd cloaked his disappointment with a compliment, and tossed her hair a little.  “Well, it is only an engagement,” she said airily, closing her photo album and smiling into Franz's eyes.  “We're not married yet.”

Secretly, she doubted that they ever would be.  Though Adolf Eichmann's headquarters had once been in Vienna, he'd disappeared long ago, before the war ended, and was now a wanted man.  Who knew where he would end up?  Or if he was even still alive.  She hadn’t seen him since he'd disappeared, several years ago.  Since he was also married and unlikely to leave his wife and children for her, not only did she not expect him to marry her, she didn't even really expect to see him again. 

She assumed she'd really only been a diversion for him, but she’d never minded, because when she’d been seeing him, it'd been so exciting.  He’d been powerful and important, taken her to all the best nightclubs in Vienna, wined and dined her in style, and given her expensive gifts.

Franz leaned in close to her, his own smile widening.  “Ah, then perhaps there is still hope for me, Frieda,” he murmured smoothly, his gaze lowering to her mouth, his lips almost brushing it...

She let him lean in, then drew back, playing coy to prolong the pleasure of this unexpected encounter with a handsome, charming man who seemed so taken with her.  “Ja, hope is always good,” she teased.  “But will you excuse me a moment?  I need to powder my nose.”

As she rose lightly to her feet, he settled back on her couch, his blue eyes still warm.  “Certainly,” he said agreeably.  “No need to hurry.”  His slow smile was so suggestive, it made her tingle with anticipation.  “When you get back, I'll be right here waiting.”  He raised his glass to her and took a sip of wine, his eyes caressing her knowingly.

Frieda hurried a bit in the bathroom anyway.  Franz was so handsome -- confident without being overbearing, and so very sexy.  She was very attracted to him.  So many young men had come back from the war either scarred or maimed physically, or dour, pale wrecks who weren't right in their heads...  It was so refreshing and unusual to see a big, strong, gorgeous man like Franz again.  She wondered for a second what rank he had held during the war, and where he'd fought.  Perhaps she'd ask him, but much later.  She didn't want to remind him of unpleasant things right now.  Right now, she just wanted him to kiss her, and perhaps even...

But to her surprise, when she came back to her little sitting room moments later, he was gone.  Quietly too -- she'd never even heard him leave.  “Franz?” she called out, confused, but there was no answer.

Deeply disappointed, she hurried outside looking for him; but though she turned to look in all directions, the street was empty.  She frowned, wondering how he could've disappeared so fast, and why he'd left without a word after promising that he'd wait for her.  That delicious, heated look in his blue eyes...  Frieda was very experienced, and she knew she hadn't mistaken his desire.  She'd also given him every indication that she returned it.  So what could've chased him away?

“Maybe I shouldn't have showed him that picture,” she sighed to herself.  She’d been boasting a bit about Adolph to make herself seem more interesting, but she must've miscalculated and scared Franz off.  It was deeply disappointing that he'd left without kissing her or even giving her his telephone number, though.  He was the handsomest, most charming man she'd met in years.

Frieda didn't realize until several months later that the picture she'd shown him of Adolf was missing...

 

*

Reese watched unseen from the shadow of a deeply recessed doorway some distance away, while Frieda rushed out of her apartment searching for him.  It was vaguely comical, but he didn't smile.  Her bewildered disappointment was so obvious that he felt a faint twinge of regret at having to deceive her.  He pressed the button on his watch and asked quietly, “Finch, are you there?”

“Yes.  Right here, Mr. Reese.”  Finch’s voice sounded a bit tinny, but it was unmistakable.  The miniaturized radio receiver/transmitter Finch had invented and hidden in his watch was a bloody marvel, Reese thought.  Other than his brief partnership with Stills in the SAS, Reese had always operated alone while in the field before.  His only contact with superior officers then had been through rare, brief and extremely dangerous coded radio transmissions.  But now, thanks to his new watch, he would be able to communicate with Harold whenever he wanted, no matter where he might be. 

When he'd first agreed to join Finch, he'd worried about how to protect him, while he was out in the field.  His watch radio enabled him to check in regularly, or to return quickly if Finch ever missed a contact; and what he loved the most was Finch's brilliant idea to use constantly rotating frequencies for it, so even if anyone ever tried to trace his watch's signal, they wouldn't be able to.  Luckily for him, he thought smugly, his new partner was a genius inventor.

“I got Eichmann’s picture, Finch,” he reported, smirking a little to himself over the fancy, high-tech toy on his wrist.  He loved it already

“So soon!”  Finch sounded both pleased and surprised.

Reese shrugged, trying to ignore his answering surge of pleasure and pride.  “Easy,” he rasped, which was true.  The SAS had trained him to arrange situations like this to gain his target's trust.  It was second nature to him now; and compared to the things he’d done in the war, stealing Eichmann's photo had been absurdly simple. 

He’d enjoyed it though; the little thrill that covert ops always gave him, and the way his little operation had all gone like clockwork.  Frieda was very pretty too, shapely and vivacious, with a nice, ready laugh and sparkling blue eyes.  Though he’d been rusty at it at first, flirting with her had actually been fun.  He’d always loved women, and after watching her blush prettily and smile at him for a while, he'd actually found himself hoping a kiss might be necessary, to achieve his mission objective. 

It'd surprised him.  He hadn't felt desire in so long, hadn't thought that he ever would again.  But now that he'd quit drinking and decided to live, it seemed his body was waking up, too.  He felt a stab of guilt.  Had he just been disloyal to Jess's memory?

“I trust Ms. Reutz is unharmed?” Finch asked, sounding a bit uncertain.

Reese set his jaw, angry at the question -- or maybe at himself.  Once, Finch would never have asked him that.  Then again, he wasn’t Sergeant Mars anymore.  He hadn’t been for a long time, so he supposed he'd have to forgive Finch for that bit of distrust.  He wasn't sure if he should forgive himself though, for having fun flirting with a pretty girl when his own wife was dead because of him.  He felt a surge of anger that was hard to conceal; but since he was mostly angry at himself, not Harold, he bit back a bitter reply.

“She's fine,” he answered at last.  “I’d never hurt a woman, Finch -- unless she tried to kill me.”

Finch didn’t answer right away.  Reese knew Harold wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, and he rolled his eyes.  But he was trying to control his temper lately, so he let that go too. 

“Very well.  A job well done, Mr. Reese.”  Finch sounded either happy or relieved; maybe both.  “I’ll send the car and see you shortly, and tomorrow, we’ll be off again.”

“Right.” 

Reese waited until Frieda finally disappeared back into her apartment building.  Then he walked swiftly around the nearest corner, just in case she came out again, and headed back towards the pick-up point he and Finch had arranged earlier.  Finch’s car showed up there a few moments later.  Reese slid into the back and stared down at the photo he'd just stolen. 

Some fifteen minutes after that, Reese was back at their hotel with Eichmann’s picture.  He took it up to Finch’s room, but when he handed the picture to him, Finch just said, “Thank you,” put it down and waved at a chair.  “Sit down for a moment, please, Mr. Reese.”

Reese sat, wondering what was going on, and why Finch didn't seem more interested in the picture he'd sent him to get.  Finch held a book in his hands, bound in fine brown leather.  But that wasn’t much of a clue -- Finch was always reading.

“Before we discuss this,” Finch tapped the picture he’d laid down on the table next to him, “I just want to tell you… to say how pleased I am, that this mission – our first mission – went so well.”  He smiled tentatively at Reese, something he hadn’t done much of lately.

Reese blinked.  He was glad Finch was pleased, but it also did funny things to him.  It made him feel too much.  Warm and almost ridiculously pleased with himself; like he once used to when he'd made Jessica happy.   _Finch isn't Jess_ , he reminded himself harshly.  Also, he was entirely unused to compliments on his espionage work.  Behind enemy lines in the SAS, he and Stills had operated alone, and their ops had been well done if they’d survived -- no more, no less.  So he wasn’t sure how to react.  Taken aback, he said the first thing that came to mind.  He shrugged and muttered, “Like I said – easy.”

Finch looked steadily back at him, still smiling a little.  “Perhaps for you.”  Then he held out the book in his hands.  “Still, I appreciate it,” he went on briskly.  “So please, consider this a token of my gratitude for completing the first step in our project so quickly.”

“Thanks,” Reese said automatically as he took the book from him, surprised and pleased.  How long had it been since anyone had given him anything?  He looked at it curiously.  It was covered in fine, soft, dark brown leather that felt rich and smooth under his fingers.  Oddly, it had no title, just an elaborate circular design in the middle of its cover.  When he opened it, the only text in it was the word “Journal”, elaborately rendered in a flourish at the top of the first page.  He flipped through a few pages to make sure this wasn’t some exercise in coding, but found the rest of it to be merely blank, empty pages.  He frowned, a bit bewildered.  Why would Finch give him a blank book?

“It’s – very nice, Finch,” he said, trying not to sound ungrateful while thinking wryly, _I guess_.  He just couldn't imagine why Finch would give him something like this. 

“I’d like you to use it, Mr. Reese,” Finch said earnestly.  “Write in it, daily if you can.”

What?  Diaries are for teenage girls, Reese thought, caught off guard by the unexpected request.  “Write about what?”

Finch didn’t back down.  “About the war.  About your time as a soldier in North Africa, and in the SAS too.”

Reese blinked in surprise.  What the hell?  “I really don’t think –”

Harold cut him off.  “You’d be doing me a favor, Mr. Reese,” he insisted.

Reese didn’t understand how baring his soul about the war would help Finch in any way.  “I'm not a writer, Finch!” he grated in protest.

Harold waved a hand.  “That doesn't matter.  No one but you will ever read it, I assure you.  You can write it in code if you like, to ensure that.  Swear to me that you’ll do it, and I swear to you in return that I will never open it.”

Reese frowned.  What the hell was this all about?  Why was Finch pushing it so hard?  “If you don’t, then how will you know if I've written a word?” he pointed out cynically.

“I know you.  And if you give me your word, you'll keep it,” Finch answered simply.

Reese rolled his eyes.  Finch’s trust in him was gratifying, but he was still mystified by his strange gift and request.  “I took this job to hunt Nazis, not write my memoirs,” he growled, exasperated.

Finch sat forward a little, clasping his hands together in his lap while he gathered his thoughts.  “I wished to help you quit drinking, Mr. Reese,” he said quietly.  “I had an excellent physician lined up for the task, but you chose to take matters into your own hands and deal with it yourself, without telling me.”

“I didn’t _need_ help!” Reese snapped, uncomfortable discussing it.  He didn't want to be reminded of just how bad it had been, either.  A kind of torture he wouldn't willingly undergo again.

Finch speared him with an intense look.  “I beg to differ,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.  “I have some idea of how hard it must’ve been, and the risk you took in doing so unaided.  I also know that you still have nightmares, and –”

Reese wondered if that was just a good guess, or if Finch had been spying on him at night; listening outside his door.  In any case, it was true, so he didn’t bother to deny it.  “What the hell has _this_ ,” Reese held the journal up impatiently, “got to do with _that_?”

Finch sighed.  “Trust me, John,” he said softly.  “It may sound strange, but I have it on very good authority that writing in that journal will help banish some of your painful memories.  It may take time, but it will help, I promise you.”  He held Reese’s gaze, waiting.  “You didn't let me help you before.  Please, let me help you with this.”

Reese rolled his eyes, but couldn't stop thinking, _He just called me John_.  Finch hardly ever did that anymore.  It gave him another surge of warmth that he failed to suppress.  He tried to look like he was irritated instead, but inwardly, he was already giving in.  This was a crazy idea, but Finch looked so earnest that he bit back another protest that he didn't need help, thank you very much.  Harold evidently felt strongly about this; and Reese knew how to pick his battles.  Odd as it was, this wasn’t worth a big argument.  He believed that Finch was trying, in a rather weird way, to help him.  He didn’t know why he was fighting it so hard.  He’d killed people in the past, with less fuss than this.  He could manage to scribble a few words about the war in a journal, too, if Finch really wanted him to.  Though he couldn't imagine how that could possibly help with his nightmares, it wasn’t so much to ask, and if it would make Finch happy...  He owed him everything, after all -- even the clothes on his back.  There was also the fact that Finch was brilliant, and very seldom wrong.  Who the hell knew?  Maybe there was something to it.  He let out a breath.  “Fine,” he shrugged reluctantly.

Finch still didn’t reply, he just looked at him, waiting quietly. 

John grated his teeth.  "Okay!  I.  Swear,” he gritted.  “I'll write in the book.”

Finch sat back in his chair, beaming a smile at him again.  “Excellent!  And I give you my word of honor, John, that I will never read what you’ve written.”

Reese cocked his head and gave him a sardonic look.  “The same way you never listen at my door when I’m asleep?”

Finch just lifted an eyebrow at him coolly.  “If you’d take better care of yourself, Mr. Reese…”

The implication was obvious.  John just rolled his eyes again.  This was new.  He’d been raked over the coals by higher-ups in the military many times, but never once for not pampering himself enough.

Finch abruptly changed the subject.  “All right.  Enough said of that.  Let’s take a look at your objective, shall we?”  He pulled his chair closer to Reese's, so they could both look at Eichmann’s photo.

“Eichmann seems very – average,” Reese noted, looking at the dark-haired man in the photo.  “Looks like an office worker, really.”

Finch grimaced, his gaze turning dark as he stared at the picture.  “He was.  A petty bureaucrat with a talent for organization, who used it to send millions of innocent Jews to their deaths.”

Reese had no idea what to say to that, to the horror of it, or to the sadness and anger in Harold's eyes at the mass murder of his people.  He wanted to lay a hand on Finch’s shoulder to comfort him, but didn't.  He kept feeling these urges to touch Finch in friendly ways, like he used to.  He felt them all the time now, so strongly that he wondered at his own evident need to touch Harold.  But he wasn't sure how Finch would react if he tried that now, so like the inordinate pleasure that Finch's praise gave him, he'd ignored that need. 

He knew he'd been a bit surly with Harold since they'd partnered up.  He still struggled with the urge to drink every night, so that he could pass out and avoid having nightmares.  He'd resisted the urge so far, but hadn't been sleeping well as a result; Finch was right about that.  So he'd been tired and short-tempered.  Thankfully, his nightmares were starting to fade a bit now, not happening quite so often. 

He'd had them off and on since his first stint in the Army.  Once he'd come home to Jess and started guarding Finch, they'd mostly gone away.  But his time in the SAS had not only brought them back, it'd made them much worse.  He wondered if they'd ever go away completely.  Drinking had helped blot them out, but now that he'd sobered up, they'd come back with a vengeance. 

They weren't always about his time in the SAS, either.  Sometimes he was back in his old unit in North Africa; sweating in furnace heat and blowing, stinging sand, with artillery and gunfire pounding his ears, blood and the bodies of maimed, burned and blown-up men everywhere as Panzer tanks roared in around them on all sides.  Explosions and fire, the stench of scorched flesh, soldiers screaming in pain and fear as they were shot or crushed under the treads of German tanks.  Friends in his unit bleeding and dying in his arms.  The bloodied faces of a few of his own men he'd been forced to shoot himself, for mercy's sake, when they'd had limbs blown off and there were no medics around.

His catalog of night-time horrors was extensive.  Sometimes he was back in Casablanca:  hanging naked and bloodied while the Gestapo whipped and carved him up, or on missions where he'd done similar things to Nazis.  Sometimes the faces of men he’d tortured or killed filled his nightmares, staring mutely, accusingly at him.  Worse, sometimes they reached out for him. 

Other times, he dreamed of things that'd never happened.  Of Jess screaming to him for help while he was lying somewhere wounded, bleeding out and unable to even crawl to get to her.  Those were the worst, the ones that tended to wake him screaming, even now. 

His weariness from lack of sleep had made it harder to control his emotions, which had also surged up strongly once he'd quit drinking.  His temper in particular.  Finch had borne the brunt of it, which Reese regretted. 

It'd just been hard for him, coming back to life again.  Having to talk to people, to deal with them again, to act normal after living on the streets alone and mostly mute for so long. 

Suddenly, everything in his life was so different.  Having a partner, having a friend again, lots of money, plenty to eat and a luxurious place to stay...  Even his new clothes, the finest and most expensive that he'd ever worn, had felt odd against his skin. 

Being able to stay clean again had been a luxury he'd enjoyed, though.  When he'd been going through D.T.'s while he quit drinking, he'd discovered that soaking in baths for a long time had eased his shaking, and washed away the feverish sweat from his hallucinations.  They’d been bad, but fortunately, they hadn’t lasted long.  The shakes, nausea and pain had lasted much longer.  He'd spent uncounted hours on his knees by the toilet, vomiting up the light meals he'd had delivered to his room; then he'd crawled into the bathtub.  Aching all over and trembling with exhaustion, he'd turned the water on and let it wash him clean again. 

He hadn't been in a tub in years.  He'd been lucky to take an occasional shower while he was homeless.  But while getting sober again, he'd discovered that taking long, hot baths calmed and soothed him, made him feel curiously safe.  Something about being in a small, quiet room all alone, in water so hot that it steamed, had worked a kind of magic on him.  Helped him through the worst of it.  He’d been taking a lot of long, hot baths lately.

He still wasn't good at smiling, though.  The few times he'd tried it with Finch, he was pretty sure he'd scared him.  But he'd done better with Frieda Reutz, and his success in their first little operation encouraged him.  Smiling at a pretty woman had been easy, and going on a mission again had felt familiar.  Deception and surface charm somehow came more easily to him in that context.  Maybe because he was wearing that mask to protect others, to help Finch strike back at evil.  Being a covert operative again had been fun, though this first job had been absurdly simple.  Candy from a baby, really, stealing that picture from an unsuspecting woman. 

He figured Finch was going easy on him, trying to ease him back into fieldwork with a simple task.  When he'd first realized that, it made him angry.  Reese was a combat veteran and a trained, highly experienced covert agent, one of the best the SAS had ever produced.  He'd blown up trains, planes, airfields and munition dumps, charmed and fucked Germans and S.S. officers to get vital intel from them; even tortured and assassinated them when necessary.  He was an expert with bombs and all kinds of weaponry, and a superb marksman.  He'd survived torture by the Gestapo and hadn't talked.  He didn't need fucking _coddling_ , damn it. 

But then the dark little voice in his head had whispered, _You were a homeless drunk when Finch found you, and you attacked him just for mentioning Jessica.  You were totally unprofessional and out of control.  Then you lost your temper again when he invited you to dinner, because you thought he felt sorry for you.  You keep losing control and acting like an idiot, so what the fuck do you expect_?  _He'd be stupid if he didn't test you, after all that._  

For once, that voice had been absolutely right, and his flicker of anger had subsided once he'd realized it.  Reese regretted his loss of control at their first meeting most of all -- that he'd laid violent hands on Harold, his only friend, who'd already done so much for him.  Who'd crossed the ocean to get him off of the streets and give him a second chance at life, when he'd thought his was all over.  Harold had fed him, clothed him, given him an important job, paid him pots of money for it and most of all, _trusted_ him when no one else would have.  Reese's obligation and gratitude to Harold were enormous, and his shame and regret for abusing him when they'd first reunited was deep and abiding. 

He really didn't deserve Finch, or anything that he'd done for him.  So he was hesitant to touch him now, even to reassure him.  After what he’d done to him, he didn’t deserve to; and he knew Harold wouldn’t want his hands on him again, either.  But that look on Harold’s face, when he'd seen Eichmann's picture...  Reese had to do _something_.

“We know what he looks like now, Finch.  We’ll get him, I promise you that.”

Finch gave him a level look.  “I don’t doubt it, Mr. Reese.”

It wasn’t exactly a clap on the shoulder, Reese thought, but it _was_ an expression of faith in his abilities.  And after the many ways he'd screwed up with Finch lately, he was grateful for even that much.  It was more than he deserved.

Finch held out Eichmann’s file to him.  “Our next stop in his pursuit will be Linz, Austria, where Eichmann grew up.  We’re taking a train first thing in the morning, so you might want to use tonight to familiarize yourself with his file.”

Reese knew Finch had already memorized it.  “I will, thanks.”  He meant it, but as he took the file, he privately vowed to do much more than that.

 _I'll do better with Harold from now on_.  _I'll start looking after him, instead of growling at him.  Start teasing him, like I used to_.  _I'll smile at him again, be gentler_.  _Be more of a friend_.  _He deserves that.  He's given me everything; he deserves everything I have to give in return._

He wondered if he should start by trying to smile in return for Harold's continued faith in him, but decided to spare him instead.  With men, he still smiled like he'd grown used to smiling at Germans:  like he was coldly looking forward to the kill.  His stony, forbidding manner had served him well while he'd lived on the streets, but it was a drawback with Finch.  He needed to get rid of it, but it'd become such a habit that it wouldn't be easy.  He resolved to start working on it anyway. 

But how?  How could he learn to smile warmly again, when he'd become so cold?  For a moment, he was at a loss.  Then he thought of Frieda.  He'd managed it with her, hadn't he?  Well -- not really.  He'd actually just given her some phony, practiced smiles.  She'd just never met him before, so she didn't know the difference between them and the real, warm smiles he'd once given Jessica and Harold.

When was the last time he'd really smiled?  Felt real happiness or love?

...  With Jessica and Harold.

Grief pierced him at the thought of her, and he quailed internally.  _I can't smile like I used to with her anymore_...

Yes you fucking _can_ , soldier, he told himself harshly.  She's gone, but Harold's still here; and you owe it to him, so you _will._

Who dares, wins.

Reese moved slowly to the mirror in his room.  Staring into it, he saw his usual stony, icy expression staring back.  The coldly watchful, emotionless gaze of a predator.

But he'd been so much more than that, once.  He closed his eyes, reaching for the memories he usually tried to keep at bay.  Once he'd been John Mars:  a proud soldier in a righteous cause.  A husband, a lover, a friend.  Once, he'd been superbly lucky, and so happy that he'd gone to work every morning smiling.  He'd guarded a wonderful man, and been loved by the most beautiful woman ever...

He kept his eyes closed, and concentrated.  Jess loved music, he remembered, his heart aching with love.  She loved to dance and sing...  And for a moment, in his innermost heart, he heard her singing again.  _The streets of town were paved with stars_ ,  _It was such a romantic affair...._ He could almost feel her arms around him, her heart beating against his again.

Jessica...  When he opened his eyes again, they shone with tears.    But his face had softened somehow, and he was smiling.

 

*

Later that night, alone in his room, Reese studied Eichmann’s file.  After the war, the Allies had gotten information about his life and hints to Eichmann’s current whereabouts from his deputy, Dieter Wisliceny, who’d been arrested by American soldiers in 1945.  Dieter placed most of the responsibility for the implementation of the Final Solution on Eichmann’s shoulders, and had also told his interrogator that Eichmann’s chauffeur was in detention at that time, as well. 

Reese checked the report of Eichmann's driver’s interrogation.  It’d been valuable too.  He'd given up the names of several women who Eichmann had been seeing.  Apparently Frieda Reutz had been his favorite, in Vienna anyway.  Reese smiled to himself a little.  Though she'd been Eichmann's mistress, Frieda wasn't so bad.  She sure was pretty... 

Stay focused, he told himself sternly.  He flipped back to Wisliceny’s interrogation reports.  He’d eventually been extradited to Czechoslovakia, where he’d recounted an even more crucial piece of intelligence about Eichmann.  Apparently he’d grown up in Linz, Austria and had a wife and three sons in a little Austrian village called Altaussee. 

That name rang a bell with Reese.  Something to do with the war, though he couldn't remember what.  He kept reading.  Eichmann’s family had settled in Linz when Adolf was just a boy, and Wisliceny claimed that his parents still owned an electrical goods store there, which bore their name.

That’s why we’re going to Linz, Reese realized.  If the store is still there and it still belongs to Eichmann’s parents, maybe we can trace his wife and sons from there, find out where they are in Altaussee…

If his wife and sons were still there, they could lead him and Finch to Eichmann himself.

He set the file on his chest and stared off into space, thinking of several ways he could infiltrate the Eichmann’s store, if necessary. 

He nodded off soon after and woke much later, in the early hours of the morning, with the file on the bed beside him.  As soon as he opened his eyes again, he felt a familiar, grim sort of excitement steal over him.  The thrill of the hunt, the chase.  The first faint stirrings of adrenaline had begun when he’d arranged that meeting with Frieda Reutz.  They were getting stronger now, as was his confidence.  It didn’t matter that it’d been several years since he’d done any espionage.  He knew this work; he was damn good at it, too.  

He’d gotten them Eichmann’s picture, hadn’t he?  He'd done well with Frieda, and he'd do well with their next mission, too.  And the one after that...  He was going to do his best, to give his utmost for Finch, in return for everything he'd done for him.  He'd meant what he'd said -- he’d help Harold get Eichmann, and any other murderous Nazi bastard he chose to send his Hellhound after.  He'd do anything, go anywhere for Harold.  Whatever was left of his life, belonged to him now.

He shot a glance at the clock.  It would be three hours yet before he and Finch had to leave for the train.  But he got up and got dressed anyway.  He was too wound up to go back to sleep.

As he pulled on his clothes, he thought of the 'Final Solution'.  Stories he’d read in the papers about the horrible mass deportations in Nazi-occupied countries in Europe during the war.  Trains filled with captive Jews, trains that Eichmann had evidently overseen.  Men, women and children by the thousands, packed into cattle cars without food or water, with hardly room to breathe, for days.  And when they’d finally reached their destinations, they’d been tricked with a vicious lie.  Told that they were in a work camp where they'd be safe and that they could now take a shower, they'd been stripped, separated, and systematically murdered.  Gassed and then cremated, so no one would know what had happened to them. 

It was ghastly.  Murder on a scale that was almost beyond belief.  Even worse, he knew that if Harold hadn’t been living in England when the war started, if he'd been in Europe instead, he might’ve been forced onto one of those trains and murdered too.  The mere thought enraged Reese beyond bearing, and he found himself pacing the room, his hands clenched into fists.  He would never give up until he found Eichmann; for Harold, and for all the others whose murders he’d arranged.  He picked up his file again and stared at his picture, memorizing it.

 _Sleep while you can, Adolf,_ he thought grimly _.  We’re coming for you, you rat bastard_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally meant to break this up into two stories. But for the sake of expediency, I decided to just keep going with this one. So just consider this chapter the beginning of part 2. I quoted a line from "The Imitation Game" for my illustration here. As always, comments on the fic or the illos are loved and appreciated. : )

 

“I think we’ll have to let our search for Eichmann go, for the moment.”

Reese opened his mouth as if to object, but having anticipated that, Harold went on hastily, “Not forever, just for now.  Until we get another clue as to his whereabouts.”

They'd begun their search for him with his family in Austria, unfortunately with little success.  

After some discussion, they'd decided that having Reese infiltrate Eichmann's father's store to gain information about his son's location wasn't necessary.  They'd tried a more direct link to him first:  his wife.  Though her address wasn't listed in the local directory, they'd gambled that she'd surely be in touch with Adolf's parents.  So Reese had simply used a picklock to enter the Eichmann's store one night after it closed.  An address book in a little back office there had given them Veronika Eichmann's address and phone number in Altaussee. 

Reese had then set up a 'chance meeting' with her at a grocery store there, which had led to several more meetings at her home.  Reese had reported to Finch with an amused grin later, that as a married woman, Veronika had primly refused to call them “dates”. 

But for some reason, after he'd taken her for a picnic at a lake, he'd stopped smirking about it.  Instead, he'd reported grimly to Finch that Veronika was a “dead end” who was never going to tell him where her husband Adolf had gone.

Harold had been disappointed, but not surprised.  Veronika knew Adolf was wanted by the British, Americans and Russians for war crimes after all.  Officers hunting him after the war had interviewed her repeatedly, pressing her for information as to his whereabouts.  Finch had heard of their initial search, and had been attempting to get copies of the investigator’s reports for a long time.  A week after they arrived in Altausee, he’d finally received them. 

The reports revealed that after the war ended, Adolf had been posing as a forester and living in a cabin just two miles from the little house Veronika now shared with her children.  But even when faced with hard evidence of it, she'd always claimed ignorance of his presence there, and of his current whereabouts.  She'd stated repeatedly that she hadn't seen him since before the end of the war.  The investigators had noted that it seemed clear that she was lying.  Why else would Eichmann have gone back to Altaussee at all, and why would he have been hiding so close to them, if not to see his family?  But Veronika was a loyal wife, and nothing the investigators had offered her – not money, nor even threats of imprisonment -- had convinced her to give up his whereabouts.  The Allied reports had eventually concluded that Eichmann had initially gone home after the war, but when their investigators came after him, like so many other Nazis, he’d most likely fled, his ultimate goal being to emigrate to South America.  They believed that Veronika and their children would probably join him there one day.  So it'd seemed very unlikely that she'd talk about him to Reese either, despite his charms. 

However, Reese did manage to find out from her young son that he'd last seen 'Papa' when Adolf had visited them about six months before.  It was all that he'd been able to learn, except that judging from the meager stock of food and staples in her house, Veronika had little money.  Barely enough, it seemed, to feed her and their two children.  It all supported the Allied investigators’ conclusion that Eichmann was no longer around to provide for them, and that his parents were probably doing so now.  Finch suspected Eichmann had probably fled from Allied pursuit at least six months prior to his and John's arrival in Altausee.  He’d most likely traveled through Italy, possibly on foot, to pick up phony identification papers from Nazi sympathizers there, then used them to board a ship to South America. 

“If Mrs. Eichmann knows where he is now, she isn't saying; though I strongly suspect she at least knows where he's heading.  I think he’s long gone, and won’t be stupid enough to try going back to Altaussee for a while, if ever.  For all we know, he may already be on a ship to Argentina as we speak.  Since he’s probably elsewhere and may never return, I believe his trail’s gone cold here for now.”

“I agree,” Reese said quietly.

Finch was surprised by his partner's easy acquiescence, and wondered if it was just for show.  Worried that Reese might try to surveil the Eichmanns again on his own otherwise, Finch explained his decision in more detail.  “We have plenty of other Nazis to find.  It seems Eichmann's gone, and if we hang about here hoping for another clue about his whereabouts to turn up, we may lose track of some of the others.  I don’t want to risk that.”

Reese just nodded silently. 

Finch squinted at him, a bit baffled.  He’d been so sure his partner would fight him on this.  Why was he giving up so easily?  “So for now, I believe we should suspend our search for him here,” he repeated, to make sure Reese knew that he wasn’t giving up entirely on finding Eichmann, just backing off for the moment.

“I _get it_ , Finch!” Reese said curtly.  “We'll track him down later.”  Then he bit his lip as if regretting his sharpness and looked away, out the window.  “It's fine,” he added, more quietly. 

First he agrees to abandon our hunt for Eichmann without a word of protest, then he gets angry when I explain why we have to; and now he’s avoiding my eyes, Harold thought uneasily.  What’s going on here?  He had no idea, and as usual, Reese wasn’t talking.  So he forged ahead awkwardly. 

“All right then.  Meanwhile, we can choose another target.”  He moved to pick up his stack of dossiers on Nazis.  For a moment, while he was going through the files, he had his back turned and couldn’t see Reese’s face.

Suddenly, out of the blue, Reese said slowly, “Harold, I --”

Finch froze in the act of reaching for a file.  _He used my first name, which he rarely does, and he sounds troubled.  I **knew** there was something wrong_.  “Yes?” he prompted uneasily. 

“I thought -- about drowning her,” Reese rasped.

“What?”  Finch straightened awkwardly, a chill crawling down his spine.  Startled, he turned so fast that his bad hip protested it.  “Drowning _who_?” he blurted, his mind filled with alarming questions.  Reese had thought about drowning a _woman_?  Brave, chivalrous John Reese who loved to flirt, who still never failed to open doors for women, and who'd told Finch he'd never harm one _unless she tried to kill him_?  Harold assumed Reese must be talking about Mrs. Eichmann, so he must've withheld important things from him again, about his latest mission.  Had she actually tried to _kill_ him?

“Veronika Eichmann,” Reese confirmed at last.  “We were out boating on the lake one day, and she kissed me.”  His voice was flat and unrevealing, and he kept gazing out the window as if the view absorbed him.  That uncharacteristic avoidance spoke volumes to Finch, about how hard it was for Reese to tell him this.

“I see,” he breathed, treading very carefully.  John rarely confided in him these days, so he didn't want to say the wrong thing and discourage him.  But he hadn't offered much of an explanation yet either, so he still didn't really understand what had gone on.  He was relieved that Mrs. Eichmann had evidently been amorous rather than homicidal, yet unclear as to why her kiss had somehow made Mr. Reese feel murderous.  The one thing he did understand was that _this_ was why Reese hadn’t minded giving up on pursuing Eichmann.

Despite his intention to tread softly so that Reese would tell him the whole story, it irked him that his old friend had obviously kept things from him again.  Something must've gone wrong on that phase of the mission.  Something had rattled Reese, gotten to him.  Something he hadn't told Harold about.  Something to do with kissing Veronika Eichmann, apparently.

Harold felt a stab of jealousy.  Now he needed more information, wanted to know exactly what had gone on between her and Reese -- and yet he didn't.  He knew bloody well that Reese must’ve used his charm on Mrs. Eichmann, to get close to her so quickly.  But knowing it and hearing about it were two different things.

He’d hoped to avoid the latter.  He hadn't wanted to hear the details of their dates, had secretly been relieved when Reese hadn't initially shared much of them with him.  Nausea and jealousy swirled inside him as he realized he was going to have to hear them now, since Reese had confessed to thoughts of murder.  Disgust followed, that he could be petty enough to feel jealous at such a moment, when his friend clearly needed help. 

Then an even worse thought crossed his mind.  Had Reese somehow perceived his jealousy, and was that why he'd withheld the truth about whatever had happened with Veronika from him?

No, surely not, he thought.  If Reese had sensed my jealousy, no doubt he'd've done more than that -- he'd've left me forever.  It was more likely that he'd kept quiet at first out of guilt.

Ironically, Harold had always imagined that this aspect of their work would be difficult for him, not for Reese.  He hadn’t wanted Reese as his partner merely because he was large and good with a gun, after all -- he was so much more than that.  Tall, handsome, intelligent and charming, with a low, soft, seductive voice, Reese was invaluable as a sexual lure as well.  Harold reminded himself sternly that therefore, getting jealous when his partner used his charms in their cause was absurd -- and letting that get in the way of helping Reese deal with the consequences of using them was even worse.  But given Reese's penchant for flirting, his obvious enjoyment of it, he'd just never expected he'd say something like this.

Harold raised an eyebrow at his partner.  “I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate, Mr. Reese.  What went wrong with Mrs. Eichmann?”

Reese finally looked over at him, his eyes dark as he grated tersely, “Men like her husband killed my wife.”

 _Oh, dear God_ , Harold thought, as comprehension and remorse swept over him in a cold wave.  _Of course!_   _He's stating the obvious -- but I hadn't even considered that._ Reese wasn't the only one who'd made a mistake in this operation.  Finch knew then that he'd miscalculated hugely himself.  When he’d planned their pursuit of Eichmann, he’d been thinking of Reese as a trained soldier -- as his Hellhound.  A hunter, a fighter, a _weapon_.  He hadn't thought of him as a bereaved husband who might react badly to being kissed by the wife of a man who was at least partly responsible for his own wife’s murder.

Granted, this was a complex situation.  Reese was still keeping his distance too, and much more of a mystery to him now than he'd once been.  Yet Reese's deep devotion to the wife he'd lost was one of the few certainties Finch still had about him.  It was one of the few links between the cheerful young soldier he'd once known and the fierce, lethal, forbidding man Reese had become.  The fact that he'd still been wearing his wedding ring when they'd reunited, even after her death, had made that clear.  A man less distant than Finch would’ve taken that love into consideration, and foreseen the effect this mission could have on John’s emotions.

A better friend would surely have done so.  _Nate would have_ , Harold thought guiltily.  But it wasn't the first time he'd blundered about the depth of John's grief.

Once again, he was embarrassed by his shortcomings with emotional issues.  He’d always been far better with science, with abstracts like words, numbers and machines, than he was with his fellow humans.  Now his lack of understanding had hurt Reese again.

“You're right, and I’m sorry,” he said, fumbling for the right words to say to make up for his error.  “I shouldn't have sent you there, I --”

Before he could finish, Reese’s mouth turned up wryly at one corner.  “Yes you should, Finch.  We need intel.  And Mrs. Eichmann was okay…”

Harold shot him a confused look. 

Then Reese’s lip curled.  “For a Jew-hating racist, that is.” 

Harold felt an odd mixture of repulsion and relief at that statement.   “I see.  How charming,” he said dryly.  Yet now that they’d begun the discussion he’d dreaded, he found that a perverse part of him was curious about what else Reese had done with Veronika.  Though he evidently hadn't liked her much, he was far too good an agent to let that show.  So had things between them gone further than a kiss?  He shut his mouth firmly, smothering the impulse to press John for more details.  Doing so would be prying, and it would also make his own feelings far too transparent.  He waited, instead, for Reese to tell him more.

For a moment, Reese seemed lost in recollection.  Then he tilted his head and gazed sharply at Finch, his eyes piercing. 

That look made Finch apprehensive.  Reese was developing a disturbing ability to ‘read’ him.  Lately, that look signaled that Reese was about to somehow pick his brain, then announce what should’ve been Harold’s private thoughts out loud.  

“It was just a kiss, Harold.  I didn’t have sex with her, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Again, with the mind-reading! 

Exasperated, Finch looked away.  Bloody _hell_ , but Reese was getting far too good at that!  He'd always known John was highly intelligent and perceptive of course.  It was just extremely disconcerting, not to mention embarrassing, to have those traits turned on him.  Add that to the fact that Harold wasn't used to discussing sex at all, and that Reese had implied that he might be jealous -- it was all mortifying.  Harold felt himself flushing.  “No, I wasn’t –”

Reese's mood seemed to switch abruptly, from probing curiosity to disinterest.  Looking away, he shrugged off Finch's denial and Veronika’s kiss, too.  “It was nothing, really.  She’s young, and Eichmann’s been gone a long time.  She was just lonely, that's all.”

Harold was relieved that his partner had quit talking about sex, but also amazed at his modesty.  As if Reese’s exotic good looks, low, throaty voice and charm had nothing to do with Veronika's response to him!  Finch doubted that she would’ve been tempted to kiss any other man within mere days of meeting him.  Though Reese was a superbly confident operative, sometimes he underestimated his own attractiveness, Finch thought wryly.

Reese's gaze suddenly swept back to his.  “I would’ve slept with her though, if I’d thought that would've persuaded her to tell me where Eichmann is.”  His stance looked casual enough, but his gaze was locked intently on Harold's again. 

Reese seemed to be searching his face for a reaction to that remark.  Perhaps he was trying to prove the depth of his dedication to their cause -- but that wasn't necessary. Finch didn't doubt it.  Or maybe he wanted to know if Finch really expected that of him.  Or perhaps he was still trying to find out if Finch really had been jealous, as he'd implied earlier. 

That possibility was frightening enough that Harold was careful to keep his face expressionless and his voice flat when he answered.  “I believe you, and I appreciate your dedication,” was all he said.

He did, yet he had conflicting feelings about Reese going to that particular length to prove it, nonetheless.  He would never tell Reese to seduce a woman for information, but he wouldn’t judge him if he did, either.  That would be completely hypocritical, since he'd considered John's extreme good looks a useful asset from the start.  He’d hired him knowing that John had used sex to gain information in the SAS, and had assumed that he'd do it for their operation too if necessary.

Still, Finch had disliked the idea from the start.  Now he secretly hated it.  The deeper his feelings became for John, the more he despised the thought of him in bed with some Nazi’s wife or girlfriend, to gain information for him.  It wasn’t just jealousy, either.  Reese had been hurt so badly while in the SAS.  He'd had to do terrible things, had seduced, tortured and even murdered people in the line of duty.  Then he'd been used and betrayed by his own partner, tortured himself by the Germans, and finally unfairly prosecuted by the British Army which he'd served so faithfully.  Reese had been abused by both sides during the war, and Harold wanted to do so much better by him than that.  He loved John, and wanted to treat him with the respect he deserved.  As his friend, he wished he could’ve at least promised him that he didn’t consider his body a commodity, to be traded for information. 

But he couldn’t tell John that, or ask him not to go that far.  Finch owed his family and Nathan everything he had, everything he was; and he wanted justice for his murdered fellow Jews, too.  He’d resolved to put it all into the hunt for those who’d killed them.  He’d vowed to hunt down as many Nazis as he could, even if it led to his own death.  Reese had agreed to that, too.  Given that, drawing the line at using sex to find them seemed a bit ridiculous.  If he’d been as handsome as Reese, Harold would’ve whored _himself_ out for their cause, if necessary.

Yet somehow, knowing that didn’t make it any easier for him to think about John’s beautiful body being used in such a sordid fashion.

“We were out on the lake that day, in a little rowboat,” Reese went on pensively, interrupting Finch’s painful musings.  “There was no one else around.  And after she kissed me, Veronika asked me to row carefully, because she couldn’t swim.  I realized, all I would’ve had to do was give her a little push, and she'd've gone over the side.”  He looked at Harold, his face dark with the memory.  “Then Eichmann would’ve known how it felt, to lose _his_ wife.”

 _Good lord_.  Finch looked away, his feelings jumbled.  When he’d sent Mr. Reese on the trail of that butcher, he hadn’t anticipated this.  It’d never even crossed his mind that Reese might be tempted to murder Eichmann’s wife, to avenge losing his own in a German bombing raid. 

After all, he’d made up his own mind on the subject of revenge long ago.  He was after justice, not vengeance; and Reese had agreed to that, too.  No matter how much the men they were after disgusted him, no matter how much he hated them for what they’d done to his family, his best friends, his people and to half the world, he and Reese would not kill them when they found them -- or harm their wives and children, either.  That had been the Nazis' crime, after all:  remorseless, wholesale slaughter.  Rather than lowering himself to their level by murdering them or hurting their families, Finch intended to let the law deal with them.  A civilized man, he refused to become like the monsters they were hunting. 

 _Like the thugs who killed Annaliese_.

Still, he understood the dark temptation Reese had felt, all the same.  The desire to take revenge -- to make Eichmann feel his pain, his grief.  How many times had he wished Lt. Snow dead instead of Nate, after all?  And then there was this quest he’d taken on, to try to find justice for at least some of the millions of people the Nazis had killed.  Oh yes – he understood the feeling.

“But you didn’t do it, John,” he said quietly.  “That’s all that counts.”  It was all he had to offer in the way of comfort.

Reese shook his head.  “I'm not so sure.  I came so close…”

Harold risked a sharp glance at him.  He'd been listening carefully, and despite Reese's customary terseness and stoic expression, there'd been a faint trace of something raw there.  And his confession didn't seem to have eased his mind at all.  On the contrary; Reese drew himself up to face him.  He stood rigidly straight, legs apart, shoulders braced, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his gaze fixed somewhere just over Harold’s shoulder.  He looked desperate somehow, like a soldier facing a firing squad.  Harold frowned, confused and feeling out of his depth again. 

Why was Reese still so tense, so apprehensive?  Why wouldn’t he meet his eyes, and why did he seem to be bracing himself for a blow?

“I screwed up.  Almost blew our mission,” his Hellhound said roughly at last.  “Maybe I'm not right for this, Harold.”

_Oh my._

Reese must've believed he'd judge him harshly for this -- perhaps even dismiss him outright.  That was why he'd kept it secret at first.

 _Yet he just told me anyway_.  Harold marveled at his friend's deeply ingrained sense of honor.  Or was this guilt, or worse?  Reese had said, after all, that he'd never harm a woman; and he'd meant it at the time.  But because of what'd happened with Veronika Eichmann, he now doubted himself, his capacity for self-control.

This is my fault, Harold thought, pierced by regrets of his own.  If it weren’t for him, Reese would never have been tempted to kill a woman in cold blood, a woman who’d never harmed him herself, just so he could hurt her husband.  What other shades of darkness would Reese discover in himself, if Finch forced him to keep doing this? 

Reese was starting to recover, in both body and mind.  If Finch were to be optimistic, he'd even say that he seemed to be thriving as his Hellhound.  He’d quit drinking, he was eating a bit more and was no longer undernourished.  His face had lost its sharp, gaunt look, his eyes were brighter and he'd even begun to smile occasionally.  Some of the smiles he'd given to Harold lately even looked genuine, which pleased Finch to no end.  And it was obvious that tracking down ex-Nazis suited Reese, that the work interested him and gave him a sense of purpose, just as Finch had hoped.

Reese had become strikingly handsome again, more like the man Finch remembered.  Though he still wasn't quite as muscular as he'd once been, he was working on that, too.  Finch had seen him coming back from early morning runs and even lifting barbells, in a fitness regimen he must've learned in the military.  He looked sturdier and more importantly, the dark, haunted look he'd had when Finch first found him, had finally left his eyes.  His moods had evened out too, and to Harold's relief, Reese hadn't lost his temper with him lately either.  Though his confession about Mrs. Eichmann had been disturbing, Finch knew the salient points about it were that he'd resisted the temptation to kill her, and that he'd opened up and told him the truth about it too, difficult though it had been for him.  Despite his fear of losing his job and Harold's respect, Reese had been honest anyway.  It just reminded him of what he'd always known; that he could always count on John to do the right thing, no matter what.

“You are not only 'right for this' work, Mr. Reese, you're the only man on earth that I trust to do it properly,” Finch said, holding Reese's gaze as he spoke, so he'd understand just how much he meant that.

Reese let out a breath Finch hadn't even realized he'd been holding, and something in his face eased, his body settling into a slightly less rigid stance.  He swallowed hard, then looking straight into Harold's eyes, he said formally, “Thanks, Mr. Finch, _sir_ \-- for giving me this job.”

 _He called me 'sir'_ , Finch thought.  It was the first time John had done so since the war, and it gave Harold such an upwelling of love and happiness that for a moment, he couldn't speak.  _Oh John_ …  He knew John was thanking him for more than just his job -- for everything he'd done, and for the second chance he'd been given at life, as well.  Harold was deeply touched.  But the love he felt reminded him of his great responsibility to care for this splendid young man, who'd been hurt so very badly.  So he thought hard before he spoke, thinking only of John. 

Was he being selfish by keeping Reese here hunting Nazis with him?

Finch had devoutly hoped for his partner's recovery, and though he seemed much better already, he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.  Even his quest for justice wasn't worth it.

He wanted nothing more than to ease Reese's mind.  He had no intention of firing him, and his heart quailed at the very thought of sending him away.  The problem was -- if that would be best for John, how could he, in all conscience, keep him here?  He chose his words carefully.

“That said, I also understand if this… work isn’t what you expected, or what you'd prefer to do, John,” he said quietly.  “I want you to know, you can leave at any time.  No questions asked.  If you ever wish to, I’ll give you enough money to go anywhere you like, and start over in whatever way you choose –”

Harold meant to be reassuring, to give Reese a way out of their situation if he ever wanted one, now or in future.  But as he spoke Reese froze, his shoulders getting tense again.  “Is that what you want?” 

His Hellhound was terse as always, but again, Harold got the sense of something underneath about to shatter.  He shared the feeling.  Despite his attempt to do the right thing, the thought of going through the rest of his life without seeing John's fierce, handsome face again was intolerable.

“No.  It's not like that,” he said carefully, and didn't say, Of course not, don't you know it nearly killed me to send you away once before?  Don't you know how much I need you, don't you know how very much I --

He cleared his throat, nearly choking on his own fear at the mere thought of losing John.  “I don't want that at all.  I just know this work is -- very difficult, and that it might be best for you to -- to try something else --” 

Reese shook his head hard, his gaze intense.  “No!” he cut in fiercely.  “No.  I _need_ to do this, Harold.  Do you understand?”

For a second, Harold's heart fluttered.  Could it be that Reese didn't want to leave him, either?  Then he remembered the way Reese had rasped, _Men like Eichmann killed my wife_.  John is here for her sake, not for mine, he reminded himself sternly. 

He nodded sadly then.  “Yes.  Yes, of course I do,” he said gently.  He’d just been reminded how deeply grief still haunted Reese.  He warned himself to stop underestimating that emotion, to take it into consideration before he planned future missions. 

The fact that Harold was driven by private grief of his own was something he never intended his partner to know, though.  He'd let Reese believe that being Jewish was the main motive for his vigilante project; that and Nate's death.  Since they were a part of what drove him, it wasn't entirely untrue.  Better still, it kept John from prying into his past. 

Since that was as much as he felt comfortable with his partner knowing, he decided he'd better change the subject before his painfully perceptive operative guessed at his secret, too. 

“All right then.  That's settled,” he said briskly, to cover his own vast relief.  “Currently, I have good leads on at least thirty of these men.  With whom shall we start?  I’ll leave it up to you.”

“All right.”  Reese walked to the pile of files, took two off of the top, set them down on the table and flipped open the one on the left.

Finch looked down into it, over Reese's shoulder. There was a little photo at the top of a blond man with hard blue eyes and a long face.  “That is Hauptsturmführer Xavier Strauss,” he said.  “An adjutant who was the commander-in-chief of the garrison and administrator general of the Nazi prison camp at Mauthausen, Austria towards the end of the war.  When the Americans finally rolled in, took it over and saw how horrific it was, they shot the camp’s commandant, Franz Ziereis, on the spot.  Several of the other SS officers there were also convicted by an American Military Tribunal in short order, and hanged.  Strauss somehow managed to escape.  But according to statements given to the Americans by the inmates who managed to survive his reign of terror, Strauss was personally responsible for the murder of hundreds of captive Jews there.  He had a habit of carrying around a large pair of pliers, which he used to pry the gold teeth out of dead prisoners’ mouths after he shot them.  He’d trade the gold for Schnapps.”

A feral look darkened Reese’s eyes, and when he replied grimly, “Let’s go after him next,” it was Finch's Hellhound speaking.

 

*

Buenos Aires, Argentina

November, 1947

 

Finch and Reese sat in a small hotel room.  There were no direct flights from Austria to Argentina, so they’d flown to Italy first.  There, rather than taking numerous plane flights to reach their destination, Finch had chosen to book them passage on a large passenger ship headed to Buenos Aires instead.  After the near disaster of Reese’s experience with Veronika Eichmann, he’d decided that some leisurely time aboard a ship, in sunny weather, might be just the thing for John. 

And he’d enjoyed the experience himself.  It had been nice to be able to relax for a time; to walk the ship in John’s quiet company, to see him eat decent meals and to watch the tension that had drawn his shoulders rigid during that last week in Austria fade away.  They’d even managed some hotly contested games of chess along the way, and Finch had been delighted to find that John’s skill at the game hadn’t faded.  If anything, his approach was now more subtle and well planned.

Still, the trip from Austria to Argentina was fairly long, and it had been late afternoon when they’d arrived in Buenos Aires.  Later still when they’d found a small but decent hotel, then managed a quick meal.  By that time, it was early evening. 

They got right to work.

Finch spread the files they'd need and some local maps out on a small table in his room.  The dossier on Xavier Strauss was on top. 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for the foreign languages in this chapter will be in my notes at the end. Reese and Finch's conversations will have some Spanish in them from now on, while they're in Buenos Aires, to lend some authenticity to the story. You'll just have to imagine that when they’re talking where others might overhear, they're saying every word in Spanish. : ) There's some Rinchy pining here, and Reese almost starts to figure a few things out... 
> 
> Also, I looked it up and though the first color film was released in 1941, it was expensive and it took a long time to process. Color photography didn't become common until about 1970, so the photos Reese and Finch take in this fic will be black and white.

 

 

As they spread out maps of Buenos Aires in Finch’s room, Harold looked for the barrio named Palermo, and pointed to it.  “Xavier Strauss, aka ‘Wulff’ has apparently opened a shooting range here, in Palermo Viejo on Coronel Diaz street, in a commercial area near a rather posh neighborhood.  I’m told that his business is thriving, and his clients are all German, mostly ex-soldiers and Nazi officers.  Apparently, some are rumored to be S.S.  And since we already know he’s a hardened murderer, I would advise extreme caution when you decide to approach him.”

Reese just nodded, but Harold noted that he looked, if anything, faintly amused by his warning.  He reminded himself that during the war, Reese had been accustomed to either seducing, torturing and/or assassinating S.S. men and other highly dangerous Germans.  They probably didn’t worry him at all.  Harold had already realized that he would always be the one in their partnership who would worry and advise caution; and that Reese would most likely ignore his warnings, and rush in where any sane man would fear to tread anyway.  But given his own experience with John’s amazing talents, particularly his extraordinary adaptability, his coolness under pressure and expertise at combat, he also knew better than to try to tell him what to do.  At least, he told himself wryly, he’d have to resist that impulse as best he could. 

Reese then asked shrewdly, “Who are you getting your intel from, on the Nazis who emigrated here?  All this information on their new aliases and businesses – you must already have an operative here, or maybe more than one.  Or at least good informants.”

Finch considered the question, and decided there really wasn’t any reason to keep that information from his partner any longer.  “Quite right,” he answered.  “While you are my only partner, I do have several paid informants here, and more in other South American countries which we may need to visit in future.”

If Reese was irritated at not being told the names of his informants, he didn’t show it.  On the contrary -- he smiled admiringly at Harold.  “Good thinking.  I love a man who plans ahead, Finch.” 

Harold shrugged and deflected the comment expertly.  “This venture, and our safety, requires it.”  He looked away, fiddling with the rim of his glasses to hide his mingled pleasure and discomfort at Reese's compliment.  It was odd, how it sometimes felt like Reese was flirting with him, though he knew that was impossible, for many reasons.  He'd already concluded that odd feeling must simply be just a misperception, born of his own sad lack of experience with flirting.  He'd resolved to ignore it, and thus avoid embarrassing himself.

Reese saved him from an awkward silence by adding, with his usual acuity, “Let me guess – you must have someone in ‘El Ministerio de Inmigración’ here.”

 “One informant, yes,” Finch admitted.  “She’s been very helpful in getting me copies of the registration papers of Nazis who came through that department when they emigrated here.” 

“ _She_?” Reese echoed, pressing further.

“Indeed,” Harold replied wryly, refusing to name his informant yet.  As a distraction, he offered Reese something else.  “The information I have on Xavier Strauss’s new life here as Xavier 'Wulff', however, was sent to me by someone else.  A rather corrupt police detective who I managed to bribe on a former trip to Buenos Aires.”

Reese tilted his head at that, clearly intrigued, but his question wasn’t what Finch expected.  “So, you’ve been here before?”

“Yes,” Harold answered warily.  That was obvious from what he’d just said, so clearly, Reese wanted more information about that, too.  Reese stared at him intensely, as if he could pry Harold’s secrets from his brain that way, if he only looked long and hard enough.  Harold looked back calmly, revealing nothing. 

He knew that John was curious about his past.  The intensity of his curiosity had always surprised him; now it worried him a little.  His past was a very private place which he’d opened to no one, not even Nathan.  But now that he’d taken Reese on as his partner, he knew he’d have to share at least some of his more recent activities with him.  He could not expect the ex-soldier to risk his life for their cause, after all, without telling him anything at all in return. 

But it was sometimes difficult to judge what to divulge, and what to keep silent about.  He wondered for an instant if he should tell Reese that he’d been to Argentina, Peru, Chile and Bolivia several times in the past few years, secretly, using aliases of his own.  He’d wanted to get a sense of the places he and Reese would need to go, to practice his Spanish with native speakers and, most important of all, to prepare for his mission here.  He'd had bank accounts to open, land and safe houses to purchase for their future use, dummy corporations to set up, and informants to find...

He’d done lots of preparation in South America; but he decided that for now, his younger partner didn’t need to know all that.  He had to be careful what he shared with Reese.  Even now, he couldn’t tell his Hellhound absolutely everything.  If Reese were ever caught or arrested, the less he knew about Finch’s secret post-war activities, the better off they’d both be. 

As if sensing that was all he was going to get from him on that subject, Reese switched topics smoothly.  “What’s his name, this corrupt cop you met?”

Finch decided that giving him one informant’s name wouldn’t hurt, especially since John would be acting on the information the man had given him on Xavier Strauss’s new identity and activities here.  “Señor Fusco.  Detective Fusco, to be precise.”

“Other than the fact that he’s open to bribes for illegal surveillance, what do you know about him?”

Finch searched his memory.  “Not all that much.  He’s divorced and has a son who lives with him; and he’s rather sarcastic.”  He shrugged.  “As is typical of policemen the world over, he doesn’t make much money, which is probably the reason he was willing to engage in some off-duty surveillance for me.  I watched him for a few days, and found that he also apparently collects payments from local businessmen, in return for police protection, for corrupt policemen who are higher up in his department.  Though he didn’t seem very happy about it.  That’s about it.  Why?”

Reese sat back a bit, smirking to himself.  “That’s what you consider ‘not that much’?  Not bad, Finch.  If you’ve already got a local cop on the payroll, I should probably pay him a visit.  Get to know him a little better.  After all, we’re living in a Fascist police state now.  We have to be careful, and we’re gonna need all the help we can get.  An asset like that could be useful in so many ways…”

Something about Reese’s coldly amused gaze told Finch that he was probably planning to make Detective Fusco’s life very, very complicated.  His use of the word “asset” signaled that.  Finch knew the difference between an informant, who merely doles out information for money, and an asset -- someone who, either voluntarily or through force or blackmail, will do anything required of him (or her) by a handler.  He thought of protesting Reese’s scheme to change Fusco's status from one to the other, but since it probably wouldn’t do any good, he stifled the impulse. 

He felt a bit sorry for Det. Fusco, though.  Despite his sarcasm, he’d rather liked the man.  He’d seemed a rather decent sort, who’d probably just been beaten down by the corrupt system he worked for.  Still, Reese’s assessment of the value of having a cop “in their pocket”, so to speak, in this dangerous place was entirely accurate.  A Detective would be an invaluable source of information; and perhaps of protection, as well.  And Señor Fusco was a  _corrupt_ policeman, after all; a decision he'd made all on his own, before Finch had ever met him. 

It crossed Finch’s mind that he hadn’t met Fusco while using his current alias of Senor Falcones.  The Detective knew him by another alias entirely.  But he knew he didn’t need to caution his Hellhound not to divulge his real name, his current alias, or even the fact that they were working together, to the Detective when they met.  John was a superb covert agent, who’d succeeded in the most difficult circumstances imaginable.  It would be an insult even to mention such elementary spycraft to a man who hadn’t divulged anything, even to the Gestapo.  

He couldn’t help but wonder how Reese would approach the Detective, though, and what it would take to turn him from a mere informant into an asset.  Something both painful and unpleasant, he feared.

In the end, though, after thinking of but rejecting several possible comments on the subject, all Finch said was, “If you think it’s necessary.”

 “Oh, I  _do_ ,” Reese smirked.

 

*

Surveilling Wulff’s shooting range, which bore the unimaginative name “Schützengesellschaft Argentina”, (The Argentinian Shooting Society) turned out to be really easy.  There were two little cafes across the street from it, both within the same block.  Reese just took a cab to within a few blocks of Coronel Diaz early in the morning, bought a paper at a newsstand on his way, and walked to one of the cafés near Wulff's place.  He varied which café he went to each morning, and switched from one to the other in the afternoon, so the waitresses wouldn’t wonder why he’d been there for so long.  He sat at a different table near a window each time, where he'd have the shooting range’s front door in his line of sight.  Then he’d drink a cup of coffee or two and pretend to be catching up on the events in Buenos Aires, while secretly watching Wulff and the men who came and went from his business.  He was so close to the club, which he quickly nick-named “Schütz” for short, that he didn’t even need a camera to do it.  For the first two days, he just conducted visual surveillance, familiarizing himself with Wulff, his business, routines and customers.

Detective Fusco had reported to Finch that Wulff’s customers were all German, and that most were rumored to be ex-military.  If you weren’t one or the other, he’d said, you couldn't buy a membership in his club.  After watching “Schütz” for several days, Reese believed it.  The hard, watchful faces and erect bearing of the majority of the men he saw entering and leaving Wulff’s shooting range, gave them away.  Most of them were definitely ex-military. 

One bright, sunny morning as he watched them come and go, memorizing faces, his thoughts wandered back to the war.  It occurred to him that Strauss might not have spent the entire war at Mauthausen prison camp, in Austria.  He might’ve fought in North Africa earlier on.  Probably some of his customers had, too.  It was even possible that Strauss or one of the members of his club might’ve fired the mortar shot that’d killed his best friends, John Farrell and James Corcoran there. 

The memory brought a surge of old, familiar fury and grief that tightened his jaw.  They'd both died in an instant.  No time to make a sound, and no bodies left to bury either.  They'd just been obliterated, and he'd been so close that he'd been blown off his feet by the blast.  He would never forget staggering upright again, blinking through a cloud of dust, his head aching, in a world gone suddenly and strangely silent.   Temporarily deafened by the blast, looking around for his friends, he'd been horrified and enraged when he'd finally realized that a rain of blood and gore on the sand nearby was all that was left of them.

_Should've been me_.  That thought was so old, and so much a part of him that it must be etched into his very bones by now.  He'd spent years wondering why they'd been killed and he'd been spared.  The same with the guys in his SAS unit.  And Jess of course – her, most of all.  Lately, he liked to think it was for this:  so he could help Harold in his quest for justice.  Since it was also a way for him to strike back against the people who’d murdered his wife and friends, it eased the pain a little.

But only a little.

He took a sip of coffee, trying to distract himself, but the hot drink went down hard suddenly, and he coughed.   _Focus, damn it,_  he warned himself.  Realizing that he'd set his jaw far too tightly, and his muscles had tightened into knots as well, he put his coffee down, opened his mouth and blew out a breath, trying to loosen himself up again.  He blanked his expression and tried to shove his painful memories back deep down inside.  He couldn’t think like that, couldn’t let himself dwell on the past and his many losses while doing this kind of work.  He and Finch were deep into enemy territory now, and they'd be in deadly danger if he wasn’t at the very top of his game.

_I have to keep Harold safe_ , he thought grimly, and that truth was urgent enough to help him lock all memories of his past away.

He got up and headed for the café’s small bathroom.  Just because it was time to report in, he told himself, and not because he suddenly wanted to hear Finch’s voice.  Once he’d locked the door safely behind him and turned on the faucet, he raised his watch and clicked the pin.  “Finch, are you there?”

“Yes, Mr. Reese.”

Finch’s calm, quiet voice with its upper-class, cultured British accent was more than merely familiar -- it was music to his ears.  Reese always felt a little rush of relief when he heard it, and knew that this friend, at least, was safe.

“I’m just about done gathering intel for today.  I should only be here for a few more hours, then I’ll head back.”

“Good.  Hasta la vista, Señor Rivera,” his partner replied, signing off with what sounded suspiciously like a little smile.

_Hasta luego, mi amigo,_ Reese thought, his pain and tension melting away as he smiled fondly to himself.  Harold's Spanish was impeccable.  He was as good at languages as he was at math, science, coding, engineering and inventing.  The enormous range of his friend’s talents never ceased to amaze him.  Reese washed his hands, then returned to his table by the window, feeling much better. 

On the third morning, to get photos to share with his partner, he got up very early and in predawn darkness, when most people were fast asleep, he broke into a former shoe store near the shooting range.  He'd noticed, during his walks to the cafes every morning, that the store had been closed for some time.  And its location, almost directly across the street from “Schütz”, made it a perfect spot for clandestine surveillance.  He picked the cheap lock on its back door, set up a camera behind some very dusty blinds in its former showroom window, and settled in to wait.

Several hours later, when Wulff showed up, he aimed his camera through a small crack in the blinds and snapped some photographs of him.  Strauss was older and a bit heavier now, but still easily recognizable from the old photo in Finch’s file.  Since Reese now knew Wulff's best customers by sight, over the course of that day, as men in dark suits came and went from his shooting range, he took photos of them as well.  Maybe he'd get lucky, and Finch could identify another Nazi war criminal amongst this murder of crows, he thought grimly.

Once he’d gotten the pictures he wanted, he surveyed the street outside, thinking ahead.  It was time to consider how he could use local resources in their current mission. 

On his first day of surveillance, he’d noted the presence of a young shoe shine kid who set up shop just down the street from Wulff’s place every morning.  He’d already noticed that Buenos Aires had a lot of street kids, and Reese guessed that he must be one of them, or else he'd be in school during the day, instead of out working.  A slow walk past his stand, and he’d heard the kid’s name:  Innosanto Morales.  He looked about thirteen or fourteen.  His clothes were clean, but old and worn, and he looked thin and hungry.  Judging from the number of Wulff’s clients who used his services, he had to be good at his job, but shining shoes didn't pay much. 

_Innosanto would make a good informant_ , Reese reflected.  The kid looked like he could use some extra money, for one thing, which Reese would be glad to supply in return for information.  Innosanto was also clever to have chosen that spot, where large numbers of men passed by every day, to ply his trade.  Most likely he’d been there a while, and since he was smart, he was probably also observant.  So he probably knew a lot about Wulff’s clients, too.  Men talked while they got their shoes shined, after all.  Now that the war was over, Reese guessed that even ex-military men would consider a poor street kid harmless.  So they wouldn't be very careful with what they said to him.

Reese folded up his paper with a smirk, and went out to get his shoes shined.

 

*

  

The next morning, Reese and Finch sat down early in the morning at a table in their hotel’s little café.  They'd frequented it because the food was good, it was convenient and they usually had a corner of it all to themselves in the morning, where they could talk freely.  The waitress, a chatty, pretty woman in her late thirties named Maria Santiana, bustled toward them.  “Ah, Mr. Falcones!  It’s nice to see you.  ¿Como esta usted?  How are you this morning?  What would you like?”

She beamed a bright smile at him.  In fact, Harold noticed that all her attention seemed focused on him.  Though women usually noticed Reese first and made much of him, for some odd reason, each time they ate there, Señorita Santiana seemed more interested in him. 

He glanced across the table to find that wasn’t lost on Reese, either.  He leaned back in his chair a bit, smiling innuendo at him.  Finch did his best to ignore it.

Since Reese's teasing had lost its cruel edge, Harold had grown more comfortable with it.  The quiet respite they’d had aboard ship getting to Argentina had helped them regain a bit more of their old friendship, and since they’d shared meals and chess games there, they'd grown less awkward and wary with each other.

Still, despite the improvement in their relationship, Finch found the amused quirk of Reese's lips as irritating as he found Señorita Santiana’s behavior baffling.  Why would any woman show a marked preference for him, when Reese was sitting right across from him?  Was Maria  _blind_?  And why did Reese think her odd behavior was so funny?

“I’m fine, thank you.  I would like eggs, toast and tea; with cream and sugar, por favor.”

“All right,” Maria smiled.  “Anything else?”  She tossed her hair and leaned towards Finch a little, displaying the low-cut white blouse she was wearing. 

Finch didn’t even need to look at Reese to know that his smirk had deepened at her obvious flirting.  “No, that will be all,” he said, in a cold, quelling tone meant for both of them.  “What'll you have, Señor Rivera?” he asked pointedly, using Reese’s current alias and forcing Maria to turn her attention to his partner.

She took the hint, but her smile dimmed a little as she turned to take Reese’s order.  Reese just shrugged, seemingly uninterested, as usual, in eating.  “Cup of coffee and a slice of toast.  Gracias.”  

Harold shot him an annoyed look.  Reese had been out for the better part of the last three days, conducting surveillance on their current target, Xavier Strauss, now posing as Xavier Wulff.  And knowing Reese, he’d probably eaten very little in all that time.  He'd told Finch that he didn't usually eat while on a covert op, since he never knew if he'd need to run or fight, and they were hard to do on a heavy stomach.  Given that, Finch knew he should've ordered something far more substantial than toast.

Harold still worried about Reese.  Since he'd hired him, his operative had made major changes for the better.  He'd quit drinking, gained some weight and begun exercising regularly.  But Finch still thought he looked a bit too slender for a man of his height and breadth of shoulder.  Despite Finch's efforts, Reese was simply careless about food.  He seemed to view it only as fuel, and meals more as a chore than a pleasure. 

Finch suspected that his attitude had something to do with the loss of his wife.  Reese hadn’t been so slender when he’d been Sgt. Mars, and Finch remembered him speaking fondly of the meals Jessica had cooked for him back then.  Perhaps John missed both her company at the table, and the quality of her cooking as well. 

Finch couldn’t do anything about that.  But he could, and did, try to make sure Reese ate decent meals when they were together.  He disliked pushing him to eat, and it was impossible to make Reese do anything he didn't want to do in any case.  But he didn’t want Reese weakened from hunger either, especially since his work was incredibly dangerous; and right now, Harold knew damn well that his younger partner needed to eat.  So he just stared at Reese silently, pointedly, until his operative finally rolled his eyes and changed his breakfast order.

“Lo siento.  Make mine coffee, three slices of toast and two  _pancakes_ , por favor,” Reese rasped.  Though his words were directed at Maria, the dark look that’d replaced his smile was directly right at Finch.

Finch ignored it and just tipped his head at his operative in a wordless 'thank you', satisfied with his small victory.  As usual, they’d chosen a table as far away from any other diners as possible; and he very much wanted to hear Reese’s report on what he’d learned about Xavier Wulff and his shooting range, and if he’d contacted Mr. Fusco yet.  But for safety’s sake, he knew he’d better wait until their waitress had finished serving their food, so there was no chance she’d return to their table and overhear any of it.

So while Señorita Santiana took notes, then bustled away with their order, he tried to turn his attention back to his book for a few minutes.  But he could feel Reese smiling unpleasantly at him over the top of it.  Though he didn’t say anything, the weight of his stare broke Finch’s concentration to the point where he finally raised his head and asked, “All right.  What is it?”

Reese’s annoying smirk returned, full force.  “She  _likes_  you, Señor Falcones.”  His tone was silky with mingled implication and amusement. 

_As I am no longer a schoolboy, Mr. Reese, I hardly think that's relevant._ The tart reply was on the tip of Finch’s tongue, but he suppressed it, knowing that it would only encourage Reese at his current game.  He often thought how lucky it was that he’d spent years learning to control his emotions, though, before he ever met his partner.  If he hadn’t, Reese’s tendency to tease him might’ve led him to betray his bent.  John’s playful looks, combined with his low, sexy voice, always sent erotic shivers down his spine.  Harold hid his reaction by merely raising an eyebrow in apparent disapproval, then looking back at his book.  If Reese only knew…

But his Hellhound refused to take the hint.  He leaned forward a little in his chair, his eyes still bright with laughter.  “You know, if you just encouraged her a little--”

“ _Mr. Rivera_.”  Harold didn’t look up, but he let his tone ice over, while inwardly suppressing another shiver.   _For heaven’s sake_ …  Reese was toying with him like a large cat with a mouse, probably in retaliation for being chided into ordering a bigger breakfast.  Though Finch always pretended that Reese’s teasing was merely annoying, the truth was, it was far more arousing than he ever let on.  He tried not to wonder if his operative would be this playful in bed as well, and just hoped instead that he’d finally give up on playing his little game.

Alas, no.  Reese seemed to be on a tear this morning.  “C'mon -- she seems nice.  A look, a smile...  What can it hurt,  _Harold,_ ” he murmured softly in English, for Finch’s ears only.

Finch had already begun to long for the waitress to return, because despite her flirting, she would divert Reese’s attention from him, at least for a few moments.  But that bit of impertinence finally made him angry.  Clearly, despite his objections, Reese just wasn’t going to stop.  His teasing and casual touches had grown more frequent lately, and while Harold was glad that Reese's trust and affection seemed to be returning, those signs of it also made him fairly ache with frustrated desire.  He could never respond to them, could never show how he felt, or how much he loved and wanted John – and despite a lifetime’s hard-won self-control, sometimes all that aching, long-suppressed love and desire just bloody well  _hurt_. 

He shut his book abruptly.  “ _Enough!_ ” he snapped.  “I am not – repeat,  _not_  – interested in that woman!”  Or any other, he wished he could add.

Reese’s eyes widened a little at his outburst.  Then they narrowed, and filled with a speculative look as he tilted his head and stared at Finch.  His gaze was edged with curiosity -- as if he’d just developed some new theory about him, Finch thought, his heart sinking.   _Damn it all!_  Reese had become frighteningly good at sussing out his thoughts and feelings.  Far too good for Harold’s peace of mind.

He regretted his loss of control instantly.  Clearly, his hasty reaction had been a mistake.  Stifling a sigh of regret, Finch shut his book and got to his feet.

“Wait, F -- Señor Falcones!” Reese protested.  “I was just –”

“Teasing me.  Yes, I  _know_ ,” Finch replied coldly.

“Come on, please,” Reese wheedled, his smile fading as if he, too, now realized he’d made a mistake.  “Stay, you haven’t even eaten yet…”

Finch ignored him, refusing to be toyed with any longer.  “Please stop by my room when you’ve finished breakfast, and update me on your progress, Señor Rivera,” he ordered coolly, careful as always to couch their grim business in vague, innocent terms when they were out in public.  Then he turned on his heel and walked away, hoping that Reese wouldn’t get up and pursue him, in an effort to change his mind.  Though he could feel Reese’s gaze on him, thankfully, he stayed where he was. 

Harold was grateful for that.  He was both angry and aroused, and he wanted time alone to settle himself.  He also hoped his exit would teach Reese a lesson about teasing him quite that much in future. 

He also hoped it might serve as a distraction.  That Reese would feel guilty enough about his displeasure that he’d concentrate on finding a way to make things up to him, rather than speculating about the reason why he’d gotten upset in the first place.

Unfortunately, he doubted that.  Reese was extremely intelligent.  Certainly intelligent enough to pursue both lines of thought; and the curious gleam he’d seen in his eyes didn’t bode well for his peace of mind. 

Harold sighed to himself as he walked away.  He was probably better off hoping for something more concrete and easier to attain.  Namely, that Reese would actually stay and eat the pancakes he’d just persuaded him to order, even though he wouldn’t be there to watch him do it.

 

*

 

Reese watched Finch go, and swore under his breath.  “ _Damn it!”_  

He might’ve just discovered something important, but he’d also really upset Harold in the process, which he hadn’t meant to do. 

_Subtle_ ,  _John_ , he chided himself, settling back in his chair with a scowl.   _For a spy_ , s _ometimes you’re about as subtle as a hammer_.  He loved to tease Finch, but sometimes he took it too far; and since Finch had walked out before he'd even given him a report on Wulff, he must’ve been royally pissed off.

Reese hadn’t wanted that, he’d only meant to tease him.  But he had been curious about how Finch would react to Maria’s obvious little crush on him.  At first, he hadn’t been quite sure why it mattered, or why he’d pushed his shy partner so hard about it.  He’d just been following his instincts, poking at something that felt the tiniest bit “off” about Harold.  A habit he’d picked up in the SAS, he knew.  Needling suspicious informants until they cracked…

But he shouldn't have treated Harold like that.  He wasn’t an informant, or his enemy -- he was his only friend, his oldest and truest.  He’d already promised himself to take better care of him now, and to quit letting his darker instincts spoil things between them.

So what prompted that?

Reese wasn't sure. Somehow, once he’d started teasing Finch, his instincts had led him to keep going.   Though Harold had given him clear signs that he was uncomfortable with it – his raised eyebrow, cold tone, averted eyes and pointed “ _Mr. Rivera_ ” had all been obvious warnings – he’d ignored them all, wanting to see what Finch would do if he persisted.

Well, now you know, he thought, more than a little angry with himself.  He wasn’t at all sure what he’d learned, if anything, and --

Just then, Maria interrupted his musings by coming back with their food.  She looked a bit surprised and disappointed to find Harold gone.  Reese just gave her a noncommittal shrug, not about to explain his absence.  When she hesitated with Finch's plate, though, he had an inspiration. “Leave it,” he said.  “I'll take it up to him.”

“Si, Señor.”

The second she went away, he lowered his head and began eating the pancakes and toast Harold had made him order, surprised at how hungry he was.  But his thoughts were all of Finch as he ate, his mind churning furiously over what’d just happened.

Usually, Harold either ignored his teasing, changed the subject, or on rare occasions, shut it down with a wintry reply.  But this time, he’d been teasing him about a woman; and this time, for the first time since their disastrous dinner together in New York, Harold had gotten really angry with him.  Almost furious.  So pissed off that he’d snarled emphatically that he was  _not_   _interested_ , then got up and left.  Even an idiot would know that had to mean something.  But what?

It was possible, of course, that Harold was just so shy that he didn’t appreciate anyone teasing him about the opposite sex.  But when the reserved scientist had snapped at him in a way he almost never did, Reese had realized that it could also be something else.  Usually an over-reaction that strong, meant that you’d somehow struck a nerve.  Maybe he’d just unwittingly poked at something Finch hadn’t wanted him to know, didn’t want him to see. 

His mind raced through possibilities.  Finch obviously wasn’t interested in Maria.  But what if it was more than that?  What if he wasn't interested in women at all?  What if he preferred men, instead?

It was a new thought, and an odd one.  It also gave Reese a strange little thrill that he didn’t expect or understand.

But he pushed the theory away, rejecting it along with his questions.   _Naw, that can’t be_ , he told himself.  It was a crazy idea, that didn't add up.  His own knowledge of Finch contradicted it.  He’d seen Finch date some pretty spectacular women back in England, after all; and they’d been very fond of him.  If he'd been dating them just to hide his real bent, that wouldn't have been the case.  Besides, if Finch were gay, he’d’ve seen it long before this.  No.  It was far more likely that Finch just didn’t like Miss Santiana, or didn’t appreciate being teased about women.

Reese made a mental note to himself, never to do that again.  Their partnership was too important to him, to risk losing it by seriously annoying Harold.  He wondered just how angry he'd made him, and what he might do about it.  He sighed to himself and ate faster, trying to think of a way to make up for his blunder.  Maybe bringing Finch his breakfast would help.

Then again, maybe not.  Maybe he'd have to try harder than that, to win his way back into Finch’s good graces.  For whatever reason, he thought of Harold's old housekeeper then, and of how much his friend had loved her baking.  He wondered if anyone in Buenos Aires sold raspberry scones.  He'd have to visit some bakeries, and find out.

*

Harold let himself back into his room, and opened his window to partake of the cool morning air while he could.  It might help cool him off inside and out, he thought wryly.  Besides, he already knew from experience that it would get warm later.

He tried to settle down with his book again while he waited for Reese, but images of him tempted him instead.   Despite his earlier anger at him, John’s beauty filled his mind.  John's seductive smile and long-lashed, piercing blue eyes blotted out the words in front of him.…  He remembered the surge of pleasure he'd felt days ago when he’d said,  _I love a man who plans ahead, Finch_.

If only he could love me... Harold sighed to himself.  Rather than banishing his unwelcome arousal, he was stoking its fires by thinking of John this way. 

_I don’t have time for this_ , he told himself sternly.  John would finish his breakfast and come to report to him soon.  He had to get himself under control before then.

But how? 

Sometimes, Harold’s hopeless love just refused to be shoved aside, locked away, repressed.  Sometimes it filled his heart and mind to the point where his whole body ached with it, and it simply  _had_ to be given expression.  His earlier exasperation at John’s teasing had quickly faded, and he felt that way now.

So he reluctantly got up again and locked his door, just to be safe, before sitting down in the chair beside his bed.

There, he closed his eyes.  “ _Veni ad me_ ,” he murmured like a conjurer, falling effortlessly into Latin, the ancient language he’d learned at Cambridge, and which he still loved.  Not that he needed words to summon John’s face from memory -- quite the contrary in fact.  Harold just loved the sonorous, dignified sound of Latin.  So when John’s darkly beautiful face filled his mind again, as he’d known it would, he just let everything he felt pour out of him, as if he were speaking directly to him.  Latin, Spanish and French all mingled in fervent whispers. 

“Tu es bella, John.  Te deseo, te amo.  Tu es elegante, tu eres preciosa, tu me fascinas…”  He went on even faster, breathlessly, loving words pouring out of him like whitewater from a dam that had burst.  “Je t’adore, je t’aime beaucoup, je t’aime a la folie. _Tu es l’amour de ma vie, John._  ”

Finally, he ended his outpouring of longing as he always did; with one final, heartfelt truth in Latin.  “Tuta tenebo, John.”  He repeated it softly in English:  “I will keep you safe, if I can _._ ”  He imagined taking John’s handsome face in his hands, leaning up and laying tender kisses on his brow, his eyes and his lips.  A kind of quiet blessing, before his Hellhound ventured forth into danger yet again, on his behalf.

There.  It was done, and the pressure inside him had eased, at least for a while.  Finch breathed another sigh; this time, of pure relief.   

It was a strange little habit, he knew, telling his deepest secrets out loud to empty air like this, behind a locked door.  He’d started it back in New York, after their first, awful dinner together, when he’d been worried that John was so changed that they might not be able to work together anymore.  That night, he’d soothed himself by imagining what he would say to John if he could.  How he’d pour out his heart to him in every language he knew, if only it had somehow been possible. 

It’d become almost like a ritual now, though he engaged in it only when the pressure of his unrequited love grew intolerable.  The only limit he'd ever placed on his secret practice, was that he’d never use German for it.  It was, after all, an act of worship; and John had been wounded almost to death, literally and figuratively, by Germans.  For him, and for this, Harold had decided that only English and the Romance languages would do.

Odd though it might be, his little ritual had its desired effect.  He felt quite calm again, and was no longer either angry at John, or overwhelmed by his unrequited love for him. 

When, some fifteen minutes later, Harold heard a quiet knock on his door, and a low, familiar voice rasped, “It’s me, Finch,” he was sitting on his bed with his book again, perfectly composed and serene.  He’d even resolved to invite Reese to dinner, so he wouldn’t think he was still angry with him.

“Come in, Mr. Rivera,” he said coolly.  When the door swung open, he added, “Now tell me.  How did it go at Wulff’s?”

 

*

 

Reese knew he had to start their meeting with an apology.  Once he’d shut the door to Finch’s room behind him, he said quietly, “I’ll get to that.  But first...  I'm sorry for teasing you earlier, Harold.”  He put Finch’s untouched breakfast on the little table beside his bed, another peace offering.

Finch just looked at him, then down at the food, his expression cool and unreadable, as usual.  He didn’t touch his plate, just said briskly, “Apology accepted, Mr. Reese.  Now.  How did your surveillance go?”

Reese got the message.  Finch didn’t want to talk about their earlier argument – at all.  And maybe he wasn’t in the mood to eat any longer, either; but at least he’d been forgiven.  Clearly, Finch hadn’t attached much importance to his teasing, after all.  Reese breathed a sigh of relief and switched subjects, as his partner clearly wanted him to.  “It couldn’t’ve been easier.  I watched Wulff and his customers come and go for days, and no one spotted me.  Looks like his busiest time is early in the evening, when most of his customers get off work.  But there are men coming and going there at all hours, really.  A few like to come in early.  They're mostly older; probably retired.  Oh, and Fusco was right – Wulff’s customers are definitely German, and mostly ex-military.  And some of them were S.S., like he said.”

Finch nodded, faint hints of satisfaction and wariness chasing across his face, one after the other.  Reese knew he was probably pleased that Fusco’s intel. had been accurate, but also worried about the danger Wulff and his deadly customers posed.  “How can you be sure?  About the S.S. men, I mean.”

Reese had known he’d want that confirmed, and he already had that covered.  “I had a little chat with a shoeshine boy who works that street.  Innosanto Morales.  Fourteen years old, and smart as a whip.  He shines Wulff’s shoes, and most of his customer’s, too.  He knows a lot about him and his place.  He said in summer when his customers wear short-sleeved shirts, he's seen black numbers tattooed on some of their left arms.”

Finch's mouth set in a thin, unhappy line.  “Waffen S.S. blood group tattoos.”

Reese nodded.  “Yeah.  Innosanto said those guys give him the creeps.  He said they have “mal de ojo”.

“The evil eye,” Harold translated.

“Exactly.  Turns out, the locals are afraid of them too.  I heard some of them talking in the café the other morning.  They won’t go near Wulff's place at night, and Jewish people do so at their peril.  A few have even been beaten, though Innosanto says that they never told the cops who did it.  Claimed they “couldn’t remember”.”

They both knew that probably meant the victims had been intimidated.  Threatened. Warned that if they said anything to the police about their attacker's identity, they’d suffer something even worse; or their families would be harmed. 

Finch got very quiet, a corner of his mouth turning down slightly.  Reese knew the tiny shift in his expression was the equivalent of an unhappy frown; and he knew this kind of racist violence was exactly what Finch had feared would happen wherever ex-Nazis settled, even after the war ended.  It was why they’d come here, to prevent it.  But he had even worse news to tell him. 

“He also told me that a Jewish man was shot near there, one night about six months ago.  He was last seen looking for a cab, after getting a drink in a nearby bar about seven o’clock one night.  No one saw anything, and his murder’s never been solved, but he was found in a back alley not far from Wulff’s gun range.  One shot, right through the heart.  That means either someone got really lucky, or the guy who murdered him was a trained shooter.  Most likely that.”

Harold paled a little.  “Good lord,” he muttered.  “Do you think it was Wulff – ?”

Reese shrugged.  “Possibly.  Or one of his customers.  Lots of them carry handguns in and out of his place, and being ex-military and staying in practice with weapons like they do…  It’s likely it was one of them.  My guess is, the victim probably ran into one of them when there was no one else around.  Maybe they had words, maybe there was a confrontation, or maybe…”  He stopped himself, uncomfortable and not wanting to finish his thought.

“Or maybe Wulff or one of his customers found out his name, or just thought he looked or sounded too Jewish, and killed him for that alone,” Harold finished grimly.

“Yeah.  Maybe,” Reese rasped grimly.  They both knew that the hatred Nazis had for Jews hadn’t ended with the war.  “And there’s something else, Finch.”

They exchanged a long look. 

“You suspect the police?” Harold asked, in a tone that told Reese he very much hoped he was wrong. 

“Yeah.  It doesn’t seem like a case like that would be impossible to solve, if they were on their toes.  So either the Detectives here are idiots, or maybe Wulff’s one of those guys who’s paying protection money to the locals; and the cops are protecting him and his customers.  Maybe they didn’t really look into the murder at all,” Reese replied.

Finch looked away for a minute.  “Yes.  Or worse, maybe he doesn’t need to pay for protection.  Maybe Señor Wulff has friends in even higher places, who quashed the investigations into both the beatings and the murder,” he said grimly.  When he looked up again, his face had taken on a faint hint of stubbornness that Reese knew very well.  It told him that no matter what kind of protection Wulff and his customers had been enjoying, it wouldn’t stop Finch from getting to him.  “What was his name?” he asked quietly.  “The murder victim, I mean.”

“Samuel Hirschfeld.”

“Did he have a family?”

Reese sighed, knowing what he’d learned would only make Harold feel worse.  “Yeah.  A wife, and a young son.”

Harold nodded quietly.  “I’ll have to do some research in the local papers’ records. See what I can find out about the case, and see if the Hirschfeld family need any financial assistance, too.”

“In the meantime, Mr. Reese, go on.  What else have you learned?”

“I got some pictures for you.”  Reese opened the envelope he’d carried into Finch’s room and spilled the photographs out onto Finch’s neatly made hotel bed, a slick cascade of grim-faced men in black and white.  “I thought we should compare his customers’ faces with your files, too.  Who knows what other war criminals we might find?”

Finch brightened a little, nodding at him.  “Excellent thinking, Mr. Reese.  I’ll take care of that.”

Reese nodded.  “I’ll go back out, then.  Follow Wulff after he leaves his club, see where he goes.”

Finch opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.  But that small hesitation made Reese pause.  “You have something else for me to do?” he asked.

Finch looked away and with a tiny shrug of his own, said, “No.  It’s just that I confess, I’d prefer if you took a night off, Mr. Reese.  The war is over now, and we’re not under any time pressure here.  You’ve been working at this for days, and I don’t believe one night will make any difference in our pursuit.”

It was Reese’s turn to blink at his partner in surprise.  He wasn’t used to getting days off while engaged in covert ops.  He’d always pursued his targets relentlessly once he’d located them.  And after his earlier blunder with his friend, he was surprised that Finch wanted to give him a break, either.  Then again, Finch was right.  Things were different now, and nothing terrible would happen if he took a night off.  Wulff had no idea he was being watched, and he was also running a successful business.  He wasn’t going anywhere. 

“No, I suppose not,” he shrugged.  “Okay.  I’ll see you tomorrow then, for breakfast.  Then I’ll start tailing Wulff.  See where he goes.”

“Yes.  It might be wiser to try approaching him at home, rather than at his busy club.”

"Maybe."  Reese turned to go, but turned back again when Finch added hesitantly, “The thing is, though –”

“Yes?”

“Well.”  Finch looked away, tugging a bit nervously at his perfectly shot cuffs.  “I just wondered if…if I could persuade you to join me for an evening out, Mr. Reese.”

Reese nodded.  He always got a secret little thrill when Finch asked him to do something that didn’t involve work.  He had no idea why he was even inviting him along, after he’d just been stupid and made Harold lose his temper, but he was grateful.  He hid his rush of pleasure behind his usual stoic mask, though.  “Sure.  Did you have something in mind, Harold?”

Finch looked a bit relieved.  “Yes.  Actually, I do.  There’s a wonderful version of Mozart’s classic, “The Marriage of Figaro”, playing at the Opera Pampa at the moment.  I wonder if you’d care to join me for that.  It’s a wonderful theater.  And afterwards, we could dine out at “La Cabrera”,” he added quickly, as if only the promise of food could persuade Reese to spend time with him.  “If you’d like.”

Reese smiled fondly at his shy friend.  “Sure.  It sounds like fun,” he answered.  “Thanks.”

Finch smiled back at him.  “Wonderful!  I’ll make reservations for us, and meet you in the lobby at six o’clock.”

Reese nodded.  “All right.”

“Oh, and please wear your tuxedo, Mr. Reese.  I checked, and it’s traditional for opera patrons to dress formally here.”

“Okay.”  Reese forced a smile.  Finch was a stickler for proper clothing, and he’d had a tuxedo made for him before they’d left Manhattan.  Reese had already worn it on board the ship when they’d sailed to Argentina, so he knew how unpleasant the bow tie that went with it felt.  When tied properly around his neck, it was rather like a garotte.

Still…  If Reese would have preferred not to put on a tux, if he’d rather have gone to some smoky little place to listen to jazz or flamenco, or to a crowded nightclub to watch locals dance the tango that he’d heard so much about since they’d arrived, he wasn’t about to mention that to Finch.  He was just grateful that Harold had evidently dismissed his earlier teasing as unimportant, and that he still wanted to spend some free time with him.  He’d learned to appreciate Mozart’s music – and how much Harold loved it, too -- years ago, at Finch’s estate.  Though he’d never sat through an entire opera before, whether or not he enjoyed it, he knew Finch would; and that was all that really mattered to him.  He hadn’t heard of the restaurant his partner had mentioned either.  But knowing Finch, its food would be superb; and probably hideously expensive. 

He grinned to himself, thinking about that.  It would give him a chance to argue with Harold later, over who’d pay the bill.  And during their argument, he could pull off that damned bowtie, in a show of frustration.  He looked forward to that. 

Reese looked forward to all of it.

Moments when he could relax and enjoy himself and be with Harold too, didn’t come along every day.  He was a soldier on a probable suicide mission, so he didn’t take them for granted.  He’d missed out on so much with Jessica – a house of their own, children, and all the love they’d have made in the years they’d’ve spent together.  He could hardly bear to think of it, even now.  He wasn’t going to make that same mistake with his only remaining friend, or miss a single moment with him.  He was going to try even harder to be kind to Harold, to give him whatever he wanted.  For whatever time he had left, whatever Harold wanted to do, and whenever he wanted to do it, Reese vowed that he would be right there with him.

Notes:

Spanish translations: “barrio”: neighborhood, “El Ministerio de Inmigracion”: The Immigration Department, “Hasta la vista”: See you, “Hasta luego, mi amigo”: See you later, my friend, “por favor”: please, “gracias”: thank you, “Lo siento”: I'm sorry.

More translations: Latin: “Veni ad me”: Come to me. “Tuta tenebo”: I will keep you safe.  
“Tu es bella, John. Te deseo, te amo. Tu es elegante, tu eres preciosa, tu me fascinas…” You are beautiful, John. I want you, I love you. You are elegant, you are precious, you fascinate me.  
“Je t’adore, je t’aime beaucoup, je t’aime a la folie. Tu es l’amour de ma vie, John. ” I adore you, I love you very much, I love you to the point of madness. You are the love of my life, John.

A murder of crows is a group of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish translations: “barrio”: neighborhood, “El Ministerio de Inmigracion”: The Immigration Department, “Hasta la vista”: See you, “Hasta luego, mi amigo”: See you later, my friend, “por favor”: please, “gracias”: thank you, “Lo siento”: I'm sorry.
> 
> More translations: Latin: “Veni ad me”: Come to me. “Tuta tenebo”: I will keep you safe.  
> “Tu es bella, John. Te deseo, te amo. Tu es elegante, tu eres preciosa, tu me fascinas…” You are beautiful, John. I want you, I love you. You are elegant, you are precious, you fascinate me.  
> “Je t’adore, je t’aime beaucoup, je t’aime a la folie. Tu es l’amour de ma vie, John. ” I adore you, I love you very much, I love you to the point of madness. You are the love of my life, John.
> 
> A murder of crows is a group of them.


	8. Chapter 8

His packing done, John laid down on his back on his hotel bed.  It was late, but he wasn't tired.  His evening with Finch had gone even better than he'd hoped; and it'd been much more pleasant than reviewing files on potential targets, or listening to the radio alone in his room, as he usually did at night. 

He felt good, mellow and relaxed in a way he seldom was.  Hands laced behind his head, he hummed snatches of Mozart's arias to himself as images of Finch at the opera filled his mind:  Harold looking both formal and completely at ease in his own expensive, bespoke tuxedo.  Harold staring down at the stage from the box he'd reserved for them at the theater, rapt and smiling slightly, totally and happily engrossed in the music as a soprano sang during “The Marriage of Figaro”.  John smiled as he relived the opera and their wonderful dinner afterwards in his mind, savoring the memories...

*

“Did you enjoy the opera, Mr. Rivera?”

“Yes, very much.  The music was wonderful.”

Finch beamed at him happily.  “It was, wasn't it?  This is an excellent opera company, and I thought Miss Tanghetti's coloratura was lovely.  What was your favorite part?”

“The Count's solo in the third act, when he realizes Figaro and Susanna are tricking him and vows revenge,” Reese answered.

Harold nodded.  “Yes, that is a dramatic moment!  Indeed.   Yet I confess, I thought your favorite moments were the soprano's arias.” 

Reese blinked at him, caught off guard by the unintended result of his own hard-to-read facade.  He’d evidently hidden his dislike of sopranos so well that Harold had mistaken his pretended attentiveness when they sang tonight, for actual appreciation.  Harold’s expression was curious and completely innocent, and John was tempted to say yes, I love sopranos too, so as not to disappoint him or insult music that Harold loved.  But he disliked lying to him, especially about something so trivial.  Though he’d remained quiet and seemingly attentive throughout the opera, the truth was, every time a soprano had soloed that evening, he'd winced inwardly and mentally begun running through the steps for field-stripping various kinds of guns in his head.  In great detail. 

“Not so much,” he finally admitted reluctantly, with an awkward little shrug. 

To his surprise, Harold laughed out loud.

Reese finally realized that he’d just been had.  He smiled ruefully.  “Was I really that obvious?”

“No, no,” Finch reassured him, still smiling.  “Never fear, your ‘poker face’, as the Americans say, is extremely good.  Your dislike of sopranos is something I picked up on…some time ago.”

Reese nodded, mildly relieved that he hadn’t lost his ability to mask his feelings.  ‘Some time ago’ was a phrase they often used when they were out in public and wanted to refer to their previous friendship in England.  He could readily believe he’d betrayed his distaste for screechy sopranos years ago, at Finch’s estate.  Harold had always had classical music playing there, and Reese had been much less guarded, and much more open back then…

“It’s all right, you know,” Finch reassured him, still smiling.  “You’re hardly the first person to feel that way.  I sometimes think operatic sopranos are an acquired taste.  Nathan didn’t much like their singing either.”  His face fell a little at that, his smile dimming as he looked away.

Reese sensed that Finch was about to close himself off, or change the subject as he always did when painful memories of his friend overtook him.  But he’d always longed to know more about Nathan Ingram, and about Finch’s past in general.  Finch hadn’t said much about him, and never spoke of his past at all.  But since they’d become partners and were more dependent on each other now, Reese wondered if he might be a bit more forthcoming about Ingram, at least.  Harold had been in a good, even expansive mood since the opera, and now they were enjoying an excellent meal of tapas, salad, steak and chimichurri, an Argentinian dish they both liked, accompanied by a delicious red wine.  Things were going really well, and Reese knew he wasn’t likely to get a better chance to satisfy his curiosity about Harold’s old friend.  He seized his opportunity, before sadness made Harold fall silent again. 

“Tell me,” he said, smiling gently to show that he meant no harm.  “I know you and Mr. Ingram were at Cambridge together, but how did you first meet?” 

Reese hoped that recalling the beginning of his friendship with Ingram wouldn’t cause Harold too much pain.  But when the scientist just stared mutely down at his plate for a minute, Reese began to worry that he wouldn’t answer any questions about his dead friend, even now. 

But then Finch sipped his Malbec, and a fond little smile curved his lips.  “I confess, I bumped into Nathan – quite literally – in the Wren library at Cambridge, during my first term.  I was carrying a rather large stack of books, and could hardly see over them.  As I passed him, Nathan straightened up from a stack at just the wrong moment with an armful of his own, and we collided.  All those books made rather a lot of noise when they hit the floor, and the librarian, who was a bit of a dragon and disliked Nathan, hurried over to scold us about the disturbance.”  Harold’s smile turned wry.  “When Nathan saw her coming, his cursing was quiet but rather heartfelt.”

Reese smiled, fondly imagining a young Harold, skinny and huge-eyed behind his glasses, carrying a stack of books almost as tall as he was.  “I'll bet.  It doesn’t really sound like a good beginning to a friendship,” he teased gently.

Harold just smiled.  “No it doesn’t.  Yet somehow, it was.  After Mrs. Talmidge was done scolding us, Nate helped me pick up all of my books.  Then he introduced himself, and though I was the one who'd bumped into him, he smiled and apologized for “nearly bowling me over”.  I didn’t know him, we’d never even met before, but I think… those little things told me that he was kind, you see?”

_And kindness matters a great deal to you_ , Reese thought.  He owed his life, he knew, to Harold's own.

Harold peered at him, his blue eyes still large and earnest, clearly wanting him to understand what a good guy Ingram had been.  Reese believed him.  And something inside him softened at Harold’s gaze, in a way it never did for anyone else.  Harold was such a good person at heart, he thought.  Sure, Finch could be cold and sarcastic when he got angry, though he seldom did.  But the real Harold, when he let his guard down, was gentle and kind, like Jessica had been.  Harold wanted to help people, like she had.  It was the reason they'd come here, after all.  Reese had always known that Finch was idealistic and compassionate, and he'd always loved that about the quiet scientist.  Harold was a far better man than he.

Reese felt guilty again, for every time that he’d been less than kind to him.  Harold deserved better than that, far better than a dark, violent man like him, whose hands were stained with blood. 

Yet at the moment, he was all that Harold had.  So Reese reminded himself that he could be more than just a weapon in Harold's hands.  He could protect his partner, too.  Watch over him, make sure he was safe and that he got what he wanted.  Try to share in things that Finch loved, like the opera.  Despite his mistake in the cafe earlier, Reese guessed he must’ve been doing better at being a friend to him lately, or Harold wouldn’t’ve opened up to him like this about Ingram.  He was very grateful that Finch hadn’t entirely lost faith in him, though he’d probably deserved that for all his past mistakes. 

“Yeah, I do,” he answered softly.  “Even though I never had the pleasure of meeting him, I know Mr. Ingram must've been a good man.  He had to have been, or you wouldn’t have cared so much about him.” 

Harold blinked, as if startled at the sincere compliment Reese had just given both him and Nathan.  “Thank you.  That's kind of you to say, John,” he answered, a little shyly.  “Anyway, after that, Nate and I started talking.  We discovered that we were both studying math and engineering, and well…  We started discussing English bridges, as a result.  Which were the best designed, and which were the most beautiful…and before I knew it, Nathan had invited me to lunch to continue the discussion.”  He smiled fondly and shrugged.  “And from then on, we were friends.  Somehow I just trusted him instinctively, in a way I’ve trusted very few people in my life.”

Reese nodded stoically, then looked away, hiding his unexpected reaction to hearing Harold talk about his bond with Nathan.  But pain knifed through him at the realization that unlike Ingram, he’d never be someone who Finch trusted instinctively.  Worse yet, it was his own fault.  He'd had Harold's complete trust once, long ago.  He'd earned it, by saving his life.  If he hadn’t been such an ass when they'd first reunited, maybe he could’ve earned it back again. 

_But probably not_ , he thought bleakly, taking a bite of his steak and chewing mechanically, so Harold wouldn't read anything into his silence.  He wasn't the same man Harold had known back in England anymore; and Finch knew it, too.  He knew every sordid, terrible detail about the killer he'd hired, knew Reese's darkness better than anyone.  Small wonder Harold would never trust him like he'd trusted Ingram.

Not wanting to cast a pall over their dinner by turning moody, Reese tried to banish his regrets by reminding himself that at least Harold had finally opened up to him a little, and about someone who was incredibly important to him, too.  He ought to focus on that.  He was lucky that Finch had told him even that much, since Nathan’s memory was precious to him.  He should be honored by it, instead of brooding about his own far lesser importance to Harold. 

He cast about for a way to show Finch some gratitude.  A sip of wine for courage, then he said softly, “It was like that for me with my wife, too.  The first time I met her, I could see what a good person she was.”  He knew he should say more about her, but shrugged helplessly when grief surged up inside of him as usual.  He tried to control it, but his throat hurt anyway, like he'd just swallowed broken glass.  “I just…trusted her.  I wanted to be with her,” he finished hoarsely.

It was all that he could choke out.  Yet it was such a poor attempt at explaining all that Jessica had meant to him that it seemed a totally inadequate tribute, at best.  He should’ve told Harold the truth -- that he’d fallen madly in love with her the first time they’d met.  That he'd been right to, because Jessica wasn't just beautiful on the outside.  She was a wonderful woman:  smart, strong, kind and generous.  And he hadn’t just wanted to be with her for a time, he’d wanted to spend his whole life with her -- wanted to have children with her, to grow old with her.

But being a covert agent had changed Reese.  After the terrible things he'd done, and the way loving him had led to his wife's death, he found it almost impossible to talk about love anymore.  Part of him was embarrassed that he still choked up when he tried to talk about Jessica; but the other half, the trained covert agent, thought he'd been weak for doing so at all.  Failing to save her was his greatest failure, after all.  And Harold had been more than kind already, by giving him a job, a purpose and an absurd amount of money for it.  He deserved far more in return for all that, than being forced to listen to Reese whine about his losses. 

Reese tensed a little, wondering how Finch would react to his unwise confession.  His lips thinned, his hand closing in a vise-like grip around the stem of his wine glass.  He raised it to his mouth and sipped without tasting the wine, cursing himself silently.  He was Finch’s Hellhound, after all -- a Nazi hunter.  He was supposed to be brave, fearless.  Dangerous.  He was sure as hell supposed to be stronger than _this_.  Jesus.  What the fuck would Harold think of him? 

_I shouldn’t have said anything about Jessica.  He didn't ask me to, and I should’ve just kept my damn mouth shut_!

But when he forced himself to look up at his partner again, Harold didn't seem contemptuous of him for being sentimental or weak.  In fact, he was smiling gently.  “Thank you, John,” he said quietly.  “Though I never had the pleasure of meeting her either, I’ve always known that your wife must’ve been an exceptional person too, or _you_ wouldn’t have cared so much about _her_.” 

Moved to hear his words about Ingram echoed back to him, John swallowed hard.   “Thanks.”

“I mean it.  And I’m just…glad that you understand,” Harold added softly.

He wasn't alone in that.  Reese was relieved that Finch hadn't thought him weak, for talking about his wife.  The lump in his throat choked off his words again, so he just nodded silently.  Secretly though, he was touched.  For all that he considered himself to be socially awkward and generally not good with people, Finch had always been remarkably good with -- and to -- him.  He smiled a little, to let Harold know he was grateful for it.

They both sipped their wine quietly for a time after that.  Reese knew that neither of them had meant for things to get this heavy emotionally, but he was no longer sorry they had.  Harold had granted him a little more trust, in the form of his memory of meeting Ingram; and despite his training, he'd managed to return the favor.  Still, it hadn't been easy talking about Jess, so he just took a bite of his dinner and waited quietly for Harold to break the silence.  To his relief, his friend did so by changing the subject. 

“I wanted to tell you, Mr. Rivera, that I think it’s time we moved out of our hotel.  I’ve had a residence prepared for us,” he said, very quietly.  “A house I bought here.  It will be our home, for now.”

The fact that he’d called him Rivera again and the sudden change in his tone, told Reese far more than what Finch had actually said.  He looked up quickly, saw the sudden gravity in his partner’s eyes, and knew what he really meant – what he was planning. 

_He’s talking about a kind of safe house.  Some place private, that no one else knows about.  He wants us to get set up there before I capture Strauss.  Maybe he’s thinking of stashing him there for a few days, if we have to…  Smart._

Reese nodded again, a coolness coming over him as it always did when he was working, or even thinking about it.  He lowered his voice too.  “Sure.  We’ll go whenever you’re ready.”

Finch nodded.  “Please pack your bag tonight, then.  I’d like to leave tomorrow morning, about 9:00 a.m.”

“All right.  Consider it done.” 

It would mean he'd have to put off surveilling Wulff at home for a bit, but that didn't matter.  Wulff was running a successful business, and unaware that he was being watched.  He would still be there in a day or two, whenever Reese could get back to him.

“After we get settled in, I can go to the local papers’ archives, and to the public library to begin researching the matter we discussed earlier,” Finch added. 

Reese nodded, knowing what he was referring to:  he was going to look for details on Samuel Hirschfeld’s murder.  “Just be careful, Mr. Falcones,” he warned, lowering his voice as Finch had done.  “Wear a disguise, like we discussed, and a less expensive suit and shoes.  Something dark and drab.  No fancy silk ties.  Try to look inconspicuous.  Average.  We don't want people to be able to identify someone looking into his murder to the cops, if they come asking.”

“Yes, I shall.  I've also thought of a way to disguise the real subject of my inquiry as well, by simply burying it in a much larger data set.” 

Reese had to think about that for a minute.  “You mean, you're going to request a set of newspapers for the whole month before and after the date of the murder, so the archivist or librarian won't know what it is you're really looking for?  Something like that?”

“Exactly.”

“Good.  But make it six months, just to be safe,” Reese advised.  “And mention to the librarian that you're studying the weather.  That's harmless and boring, so she won't remember you later.  Make sure you look through every paper she brings you, not just the ones with coverage of the murder.  And sit somewhere where she can see you making notes on weather reports, too, if she gets up and passes by.” 

“I understand,” Finch nodded.

“Oh, and most of all -- not a word of English to anyone, Harold,” Reese murmured, leaning in closer.  “Not one.  Even if you hear someone else speak it, you don't notice or react to it.  It's a foreign language to you, got it?  Even if someone asks for your help in English, you just shake your head.  'No comprendo'.  Advertising that you’re bilingual, and speaking English with a noticeable British accent would also make you memorable, which is what we don’t want.” 

“Yes.  You're quite right,” Finch agreed, but his mouth quirked unhappily at the thought of possibly having to deny help to a fellow Brit.

Reese suppressed a smile.  He somehow knew Harold would be great at disguises, subterfuge and seeming unremarkable; but lousy at not stepping in to help others. 

“Remember, we're here for a reason,” he said sternly.  “So if you see someone who's in dire need of help, just -- find another way, Harold,” he added more gently, for his partner's sake.  “Find someone else who can help them.  Or figure out a way you can do it without getting involved directly.  You're great at contingency plans.”

Finch brightened visibly at that, smiling a little.  “Right.  Yes, of course.  Direct, personal intervention isn't always necessary...  Don't worry, I shall be cautious and circumspect, Mr. Rivera.”

Reese nodded, glad that Finch listened to his advice about covert fieldwork without complaint or argument.  It was another thing he'd always liked about Finch; his lack of egotism.  If any man deserved to have an enormous one, it was Harold -- yet the billionaire genius had always been quietly confident, rather than arrogant.

Reese hadn’t told Finch, but once they reached their safe house, he had a few plans of his own.  The first and most important one was to convince Harold to start training with guns again.  He’d taught Finch a bit about shooting a pistol years ago, but he was fairly sure Harold had given that up as soon as he’d rescued him from the S.S’s assassination attempt.  He’d never liked guns. 

Regardless of that, once they had some privacy, if he could find time, he intended to start sharpening Finch's shooting skills again himself.  If their work kept him too busy, then he’d find someone competent, preferably ex-military, who could teach Harold instead.

He’d’ve preferred it if Harold could've trained at hand-to-hand and with knives as well.  But hand-to-hand was impossible, due to Harold’s injuries; and knowing his gentle scientist, he’d likely balk in horror at the very idea of blade work.  Reese was prepared for that, and had a cunning contingency plan in mind.  If Harold refused to train with knives, then Reese would insist on something he hadn't pressed him on, when he'd showed him how to shoot years ago.  This time, Harold would have learn to shoot to kill. 

He knew his gentle friend would hate that idea too, so Reese would just have to convince him of its brutal necessity now.  If a Nazi ever came after Harold and managed to get into their house, their choice would be simple; either kill him or face certain death themselves, or worse, when that Nazi escaped and turned them in to the local police.  The Nazis living here were legal citizens, who would have the law's protection; but Reese and Finch would not.  They were travelers with no official standing in South America, and would suffer the harshest possible penalties, if caught doing illegal vigilante work there.  Though Finch had insisted they not kill their targets, and Reese had agreed, he'd always known that some deaths would be inevitable anyway, despite their good intentions.  He just had to make sure it would be their targets who died, if it came to that, or himself--but not Harold.

Knowing Finch, the house he’d set up for them already had impressive security measures.  Reese intended to review them with Finch, then check them all out personally as soon as they arrived anyway, in the hope that he could improve them, make them even stronger.  Argentina was run by a ruthless Fascist dictator who used secret police against those he governed.  If anything went wrong, they'd either be put in jail, tortured or killed.  Reese wasn't afraid of that, but he was determined, to the depths of his soul, to protect Harold from it.  So he couldn’t be too careful. 

But even if Reese could improve Finch's security on his safe house, they'd still have potential problems.  The first one was, given enough time and resources, almost any facility’s defenses could be breached.  Reese knew that well, having spent several years analyzing formidable German installations for weaknesses during the war, then using them to gain entry himself.  The second problem was that he was gone so often conducting surveillance and taking care of field operations, he couldn’t always protect Harold.  His watch radio was a vital link between them, but at any given moment, he could be either minutes or hours away from Finch.  Also, their work was soon going to get much more dangerous.  Once he finished his surveillance and recon, they’d be ready to go after their first target, Xavier Strauss.  There was no telling what might happen then.

Given all that, he wanted Harold to get better at self-defense as fast as possible, so if worst came to worst and anyone ever managed to trace their efforts back to Finch and somehow gained entry to their safe house while Reese was away, Harold could still defend himself.  With lethal force, if Reese had his way.

He'd've brought it up sooner, but he'd needed to regain some credibility and trust with Finch first, or he’d feared he might refuse.  Harold would probably never trust him completely, but now that he'd shared how he'd met Nathan Ingram, Reese knew the moment had come to insist on weapons training for him again.  He'd been sharpening his own skills since their trip to Austria, and now was even better with knives and guns than he'd been in the SAS, which was saying something. 

He was also considering another aspect of Harold’s defense, which involved getting him a dog.  Something large and aggressive, yet loyal and trainable.  A German Shepherd perhaps, or a Belgian Malinois.  Again, he doubted Harold would take kindly to that idea, since he hadn't owned a pet in England.  Still, a dog could function as both an early warning system if someone tried to break into Harold’s house, and a secondary guard, while Reese was away working. 

Reese also needed to pay Detective Fusco a visit -- without the Detective's knowledge, at first.  He wanted to do some preliminary recon at his station house.  Find out how hard it would be to gain entry there, and to come and go undetected.  If it was possible to do so, that would come in really handy in future. 

He also wanted to see if he could find out anything about the Buenos Aires’ police investigation, or lack thereof, into Samuel Hirschfeld's murder.  The cops should have his family’s address in their files, and he knew Finch wanted to find out how they were doing, too.  Once he had their address, they could contact Mrs. Hirschfeld to find out.  Reese knew he'd need a cop's uniform to move around inside Fusco's station without attracting unwanted attention, but picking one of those up should be easy enough. 

Then, he’d get back to tailing Wulff.  Once they moved and he'd made Finch's house as safe as possible, their next step in capturing Wulff would be surveilling him at home.  Reese hadn't told Finch, but since he now knew when Wulff went to work and came home every day, and that his work hours didn't vary much, he also knew when it would be safe to break into his home and poke around, see what he could find.  Evidence of Wulff’s true identity would be nice, and knowing the pride the Nazis took in their heritage, chances were good that there'd be old I.D. hidden somewhere in Wulff's house...

And after he’d taken care of all of his priorities regarding Harold and their mission, he meant to discover who Finch’s female informant was at the Immigration Department -- just to satisfy his own curiosity. 

Reese smiled to himself, his head buzzing with plans.  He always felt better when he had plenty to do.

As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered idly if Finch's female informant in Immigration was good looking.  Was Harold maybe attracted to her?  His smile turned to a frown at the thought.  No -- knowing Harold, he'd've been professional with her, all business.  He might've even been a little annoyed if she’d tried to flirt with him, like Señorita Santiana had.

He’s not like that with me though, he thought, a bit smugly. 

Pictures of Finch at the opera filled his head again.  For someone so shy, the man sure had a way with fine clothes, he thought fondly.  No one looked better in a tux than Harold… 

As he drifted, drowsy and on the edge of sleep, two words flitted through his mind:  _he’s adorable_. 

Reese's eyes suddenly flew open in alarm.  Something clicked in his head – not just what those words really meant, but also the disturbing realization that they were part of a pattern of behavior that he'd been blind to for months.  A revelation spread through his mind in a wave, reordering his perceptions in its wake, like ripples remaking the surface of a pond.  In the bright, merciless light of his new clarity, all the odd things he'd done and felt since he'd reunited with Harold finally made sense – from the way he’d grabbed Harold when they’d first reunited, to his unwise teasing regarding Señorita Santiana’s harmless crush.  He saw what an idiot he’d been right from the very beginning, and why.

Reese stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed with shock.  His heart began to pound.  “Oh, _fuck!”_ he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. This isn't an easy fic to write, and neither is finding time for it lately. So I have a request. Anyone who's still enjoying this story, please comment and let me know. I'd like to find out how many fans are still interested in following it. It seems like there are a lot more people reading this, than I usually hear from. So everyone who'd like more of this fic, please speak up. : )


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took me so long to post, but here it is, as a little Christmas gift to all the fans who've been following this story for so long. As always, comments are much loved and appreciated.
> 
> Thank you all! I hope you enjoy this, and Merry Christmas. : )

**_Five days later…_ **

Reese was up several hours before dawn.  They’d moved to their safe house, and now that he’d had time to review its security and add a few hidden devices and ideas of his own to it, with Finch’s help, he was finally satisfied that their new home was as safe as they could make it.

Unfortunately, taking care of possible threats to their house hadn’t set his mind at ease.  Far from it.  With that task finished, now he needed to confront another, even bigger threat to Harold:  his feelings for him.  Their move hadn’t done a thing to eliminate them.  Realizing that he was in love with his best friend and vigilante partner hadn’t exactly been conducive to a sound sleep, either.   

Using a shell corporation as the official owner, so it couldn’t be traced back to him, Finch had bought a large, elegant two-story house.  It was situated in a green, heavily wooded, park-like area outside of Buenos Aires.  Their new home was comfortable, quiet and relatively isolated; a model safe house.  It even had an electronic security gate which restricted access, a security measure Reese had asked for.  Still, Reese wasn’t getting much rest in their new home.

The fact that he’d only just realized that he was in love with Harold, though it must’ve been going on since the day they’d reunited in New York, still bothered him.  Every night lately, he woke up after only three or four hours of sleep, annoyed at how he’d lied to himself about it for so long, and worried about how to handle it now that he knew.  This morning was no different.  Just after three a.m., his eyes popped open, right on schedule.  He sighed to himself in the darkness.

Knowing from experience that he wouldn’t get back to sleep, he’d decided to get up and kill a bit of time by writing in the journal Harold had given him months ago.  He padded to his desk in bare feet, wearing only pajama bottoms.  He’d been writing about his old friends lately, British Army mates he’d loved who’d been killed in the war.  He still missed them, and he’d been trying to remember good things about them, in an effort to lighten his sorrow at their loss.

He sat down at his desk, picked up his pen and flipped on his little brass desk lamp, with a green glass shade.  It gave just enough light for writing, without being hard on his eyes.  Taking his journal out of the drawer, he just let his mind float back to those years in the deserts of North Africa.  An image of one of his best friends filled his mind:  Jimmy.  Red hair and a charming smile undimmed by time, a memory even death couldn’t erase.  He started to write.

 _Jimmy Corcoran_ _was as Irish as it gets.  Curly red hair, blue eyes and a big smile.  Everyone liked him.  He was one of the best shots in our company, too_.  _I teased him once.  Asked him how he wound up fighting for the English.  He just laughed, and put on this really thick Irish accent.  “My people may be Irish, me boyo, but I grew up in London.  Just who d’ye think I should fight for, ye daft git?”_

Reese smiled for a second, remembering how they’d laughed at that and he’d tousled Jimmy’s hair, with the same rough affection he’d seen on Jimmy’s face. 

He kept writing.  _Jimmy was a great friend and a good soldier.  He was always cheerful, no matter how bad things got.  He kind of became our company’s mascot.  Even when we were all tired and scared, Jimmy could still come up with terrible jokes that made us smile._

But Reese’s pen faltered, his smile disappearing when he remembered how Jimmy had died, blown to bits by a shell right beside him with his other best friend, John Farrell.  Both men gone in an instant.  Jimmy would’ve been better off if his family had stayed in Ireland, he thought sadly.  Ireland was neutral during the war, and he might still be alive if they had… 

He tried not to think of how his friends had died when he wrote about them in his journal, but he always did _._ He couldn’t help it.  Oddly though, afterwards it seemed to help him.

When Harold had first told him that reliving these sad old memories in writing would help them lose their hold over him, he hadn’t really believed him.  He'd thought that was a crazy idea.  But he’d owed Finch so much, he’d promised him he’d write about the war anyway, despite his disbelief.  So every few days since Finch had given him the journal, he sat down and wrote in it, despite his initial feeling of awkwardness with it.  He knew he’d never win a literary prize for his memoirs.  His prose was workmanlike at best.  But that wasn’t the purpose of his journal anyway.  Finch had promised him that it would help him, and Harold was seldom if ever wrong.

To his surprise, it didn’t take very long before words came easily to him; and not long after that, just like Harold had said, his nightmares had begun to go away.  It had amazed him, and added to his already immense respect for Finch.  Despite the pain his recollections often caused him, it seemed his war journal was somehow lancing old wounds and helping him heal.  

Reese didn’t pretend to understand the process, or how words on paper could diminish his years of horror and pain as a soldier, or the terrible memories, nightmares and sleeplessness they’d left him with.  He just knew that it worked better than his drinking once had, to rid him of bad dreams.  Once he started writing, he started sleeping better; his nightmares diminished in frequency and severity.  A few even went away for good.  He just felt better in general.  And the better he felt, the better Hellhound he could be for Harold; that alone was more than enough to keep him writing. 

Harold didn’t ask him about it, and Reese liked that Finch trusted him to keep his promise without badgering him further about it.  Besides, once he started sleeping better, he looked better too.  Not so dark around the eyes anymore.  He was sure that Finch noticed it, and surmised the cause without any need for discussion.  Someday, when he was done writing about his time as regular Army, he hoped to find the courage to write about his time in the SAS, too.  But that would be even harder, he knew, as those memories were his darkest.  So right now, he was concentrating on his first stint as a soldier when he wrote.

At first, while they’d been living in hotels in Argentina, he’d kept his private journal hidden away under his shirts in a drawer, with strings knotted tightly around it, so he’d know if the maids who cleaned his room ever tried to open it.   He didn’t want anyone else to read about the terrors he’d been through.  But no one had touched it.  Once in their safe house, he removed the knotted strings and put it in his top desk drawer, next to his paper, where he could get to it easily.  He stopped worrying about someone else reading it.  He never doubted Harold’s promise never to open it.  Harold didn’t lie to him.

But even here, in the privacy of his room when he was concentrating on his old memories, Harold had a way of coming into his thoughts.  And small wonder.  He smiled a little to himself.  Finch was his sun; Reese just a planet caught in his gravity, forever orbiting his brilliance.  

He bent his head again, trying to write something about John Farrell this time; but the words just wouldn’t come.  He closed his eyes, concentrating.  He remembered John vividly, but couldn’t think of the right words to describe him just then.  And he knew why.  In the darkness behind his closed eyes, he kept seeing someone else instead, another dapper Brit who he admired.  He had another Englishman on his mind _…_

_The same Englishman who’s always on my mind these days._

Reese shook his head ruefully, put down his pen, closed his journal and put it away.  He’d hoped that writing would distract him from his other problem, but it hadn’t worked for long.  He doubted that anything could.  He drummed his fingers restlessly on his desk, staring moodily into space.  He knew he wouldn’t get any more writing done just now.  He told himself he should finish getting dressed.  Pull a shirt on, at least.  He got to his feet, but somehow agitation drove him to pace the floor of his room instead.  

It wasn’t the first time that'd happened lately either, but at least he didn’t have to worry about waking Harold with his restlessness.  He’d chosen a room across the hall and down a bit from Harold’s, closer to the stairs and any potential, incoming threat; and far enough away that he could pace or listen to the radio without Finch hearing him.  Far enough away, too, that if his nightmares woke him screaming, Harold wouldn’t hear that either.  And he moved so quietly that barefoot or not, his pacing was silent.     

As he moved, Reese couldn’t stop thinking about his forbidden love for Harold.  He poked at the unsettling realization like a sore tooth, examining it despite the pain.

In retrospect it was both obvious and a bit scary, that he’d started falling for Harold the day they’d met up again after the war.  But now he couldn’t deny it.  Before this, when he’d remembered their reunion, he’d mainly just remembered the shock of seeing Finch again, and the guilt he’d felt about grabbing him and causing trouble with his bodyguards.  Now he suspected his own motives for that.

Why had he done it?  After all, he could’ve just asked Finch to shut up about Jessica, or walked off.  He’d had other, far less risky options.  But he’d chosen the most dangerous one by far, and grabbed Harold in front of his two armed bodyguards.  Though he hadn’t felt threatened, lethal and armed as he was, he’d put Harold in danger.  What if one of Finch's bodyguards had overreacted, tried to shoot him, and hit Harold by mistake?  That’d been stupid, and very unlike Reese.  He’d always been willing to risk himself, but not the people he loved.  And even back then, Finch had still meant something to him.

So what the hell had happened that day?  He’d wondered about that before, but made excuses for his strange behavior.  Told himself that he’d been drunk, desperate, and not thinking straight.  That he’d lost control when Harold mentioned Jess, and just wanted to make him stop talking about her.  

In retrospect, though, that was only partly true.  The rest of it, the part he hadn’t wanted to face, was that the second he’d seen Harold that day, he’d felt an almost desperate need to touch him.  Prior to this, he’d mostly shied away from thinking about that.  When he had, he'd explained that odd hunger away by telling himself he'd just been stunned by the sight of him after all those years, and wanted to affirm that Harold was real, and not merely a drunken hallucination. 

Another partial truth.  Now that he knew how deep his feelings were, he realized he hadn’t grabbed Harold just to shut him up, or to prove that he wasn’t a vision conjured up by whiskey, either.  He’d been lonely, and drunk enough to let desire overwhelm his training and caution, and he’d _wanted_ Harold.  Pretty damn badly, it seemed.  He’d discovered that he could be attracted to men during the war, and Harold – brilliant, neat, beautifully dressed, adorable Harold with his big blue eyes, glasses and gentle hands – his teacher and friend, who'd turned up so unexpectedly, like sunlight in his dark world -- had proved irresistible. 

He’d always loved Finch, and after the war, after he’d lost Jessica, it seemed his feelings had only deepened.  His very first sight of him after their long years of separation had filled Reese with a deep, unexpected hunger.  It had cut through his fog of alcohol and despair, and gotten to him in a way no one else but Jess ever had.  He’d simply had to touch him, and his grief and anger when Harold had talked about Jess had just given him an excuse for it.

 _Jesus_. 

Reese shook his head, dismayed at his own recklessness.  He’d risked getting shot -- or worse, getting Harold shot – mostly so that he could hug him.  Then he’d lied to himself about it for months, so he wouldn’t realize what it meant.  For a soldier, that kind of cowardice was pathetic; and for a trained covert agent, his lack of self-control the day Harold had found him again had really been inexcusable.  He winced, just thinking about it now.  Drinking, fighting and living alone on the streets for years must’ve made him both lonelier and far more impulsive than he’d realized.  It was a wonder Harold hadn’t reconsidered his plan to enlist his services as his Hellhound on the spot, after seeing what a wreck he’d become, and the seemingly crazy way he’d grabbed him.  Still, in one sense, he found he couldn’t regret the incident as much as he should’ve.  

 _It might be the only chance I ever get to hold him_ …

Well, maybe my second and last chance anyway, he thought ruefully.  He’d hugged Harold once before, just before he’d shipped out to North Africa the second time with the SAS.  He thought wistfully of how scared Finch had looked back then, how he’d as much as said he’d hate to lose him, and how Harold had held him tightly and teared up, too.  That was the moment he’d realized that Harold really loved him.  He'd already known that he loved Harold too – as a friend. 

Now that his love had become something more than just friendship, he wished he could tell himself that Harold’s uncharacteristically emotional reactions when they’d parted that day, might mean that his partner loved him in more than a friendly way too.  But he didn’t dare make that assumption.  He’d been lying to himself about his own feelings for some time.  He couldn’t afford to make the same mistake about Harold’s, didn’t dare read more into his actions than was really there.  Finch was everything to him, the only person he held dear anymore.  He couldn’t ruin their friendship by assuming his love was returned.

The problem was, Reese had never loved halfway, but with his whole heart.  Always.  Now that he knew his love for Harold had become physical, his need to touch him had grown even stronger.  He felt the ache every time he saw him; and they’d been together so much the past few days that it had intensified until it felt a bit like torture. 

But Reese hadn’t let it show.  He wasn’t a homeless, hopeless drunk anymore.  He was Harold’s Hellhound now, and after he’d quit drinking, he’d regained a trained agent’s formidable self-control.  So while they’d modified their new house and grounds, despite feeling like a hungry man at a banquet where he was forbidden to eat, he’d carefully kept his hands to himself, and tried not to tease Harold too much or look at him more than usual.  And Harold hadn’t noticed anything wrong.  Reese knew it, because his senses were extremely sharp now, honed and formidable again, and they’d all been trained on his friend while they worked.  Finch had been totally relaxed, and even seemed happy around him.  He felt good about that, at least.  Despite their close proximity for several days and nights, his iron control hadn’t so much as cracked.  Not once.  Nor was it going to.  

But when Finch had left him alone for a bit on the fourth day, to finish up the carpentry and plastering needed to augment their safe house's security, he’d indulged himself just a little.  While he worked, he’d relived their reunion in New York in his mind, remembering how good it had felt to touch Harold.  Once he’d let himself remember the whole thing clearly, he’d recalled that the second he’d pulled Harold up against him, a visceral, tactile, sensual rush of pleasure had filled him.  It had quieted the noise in his head, and dispelled his renewed anger and grief at hearing Jess’s name like smoke.  Holding Harold, feeling his warmth and inhaling his familiar, beloved scent again had all felt so good, he’d almost been dizzy with it.  It was the first good thing he’d felt in so very long…  Even while he’d been facing down his bodyguards, measuring the threat level in their reactions and getting ready to shoot them if necessary, he’d been stunned by the pleasure of holding Harold in his arms.  

I felt like he was mine even then, he recalled.  Like I should be guarding Harold again, protecting him like I used to, instead of his bodyguards.  I even thought about sex while I held him!  About some of the Germans I had to fuck during the war, and how a few times, I got aroused by it.  Jesus.  Holding Harold for just a few minutes felt so damn good, it was erotic.  How come I didn’t remember all that before?

 _You didn’t want to_ , a wry voice whispered deep inside.

Reese paced even faster.  No question about it, he’d been attracted to Harold way back then, from the first moment he’d seen him again.  And he’d hidden it from himself all this time.

 _Fuck_.

Small wonder he’d agreed to become Finch’s Hellhound, too.  Not that he regretted that, not for a second.  Whether he’d subconsciously done it to stay close to Finch or not, it’d still been the right decision.  No one else had reached out a hand to help him since his wife’s death, after all.  Even if someone had, he wouldn’t have trusted them.  But despite the rocky start to their post-war partnership, and his own paranoia back then, part of him had instinctively wanted to trust Harold from the moment they’d reunited.  He was glad he’d listened to that instinct now.  No one else in the world could’ve offered him a job that suited him better than this one; and no one else made him feel the utter devotion that Harold did, either.  He’d protect him, or die trying.

Despite the situation, a fond little smile curved Reese’s lips for an instant.  Harold was so many wonderful things to him:  trusted old friend, vigilante partner, brilliant scientist and inventor, and totally adorable (if unrequited) love.  Reese hid it, but every time their hands so much as brushed now, he felt a sweet little rush of tenderness and excitement.  Harold’s hands were so different from his; smaller, paler, and more fine-boned.  But strong too, after years spent soldering, wiring and building his marvelous inventions.  Reese adored them.  He secretly longed to hold those small, strong, gifted hands in his, and lavish kisses on them.  The hands that had reached out and saved him, when he’d needed it the most…  Oh, how he would worship Harold, if it were only possible.  He could never love anyone else the way he loved Harold Finch.

Still, he felt like an idiot for not understanding what he was feeling sooner; like a green recruit who’d missed an op. someone had been running right under his nose.  He sighed.  How could he have been so stupid, so blind, for so long?

But that wasn’t the worst of it.  It wasn’t even really the right question.  Namely, now that he finally knew the truth, what the bloody hell was he going to do about it?

The very thought of that, of acting on the feelings which he'd been ignoring for so long, terrified Reese.  His worst fear was losing Harold; and God knew, if Harold ever found out about _this…_

Reese shivered, just thinking about how revolted Harold would probably be, if he ever discovered just how much his Hellhound wanted him.  Harold was shy, decorous and proper.  A stickler for correct grammar and polite behavior.  He’d never done the things Reese had, things so dark and terrible that he figured they'd maybe even warped his sexuality.  Surely Harold could never even understand how he felt, let alone return the secret passion that drove him…

Reese wished vainly that his unruly feelings might be merely temporary, a passing thing.  But he knew himself -- knew that his passions, once ignited, burned hot and constant.  He’d always been a one-woman man.  He still loved Jess, though she’d been gone for years.  Now he felt just as deeply about Harold.  Other men held no interest for him.  He only wanted Finch; but he wanted him desperately, and it had already been going on for months.  It wasn’t going to change.

He thought of that moment in the café when he’d teased Finch about Maria Santiana.  How he’d wondered, just for a second, if Harold’s odd reaction to her meant that he might prefer men.

 _If only_ , he thought sadly.

But he’d never gone so far as to wonder if Harold could possibly be attracted to _him --_ and for good reason.  He’d quickly concluded that Finch really wasn’t attracted to men.  The fact that he hadn’t responded to Señorita Santiana didn’t mean that he was homosexual.  It was far more likely he just wasn’t attracted to her.  Reese was a trained observer after all, and he’d known Harold for years.  Watched him day and night back when he was his bodyguard, and even more intently since they’d partnered up after the war.  He’d never seen Finch eyeing other men the way homosexuals did; but he had seen him glance at beautiful women with appreciation.  Also, the women Finch had dated back in England had been lovely and fond of Harold; and he of them.  Finally, Harold had never once displayed even a flicker of physical interest in him, despite their close friendship.  Reese was pretty sure all those things would’ve been different, if Finch were gay.

No, John couldn’t kid himself that Harold might someday return his feelings.  Which was lucky, really.  Because he knew how wrong it was, for a dark predator like him to even think of making love to an innocent like Harold Finch.  Reese was cursed, poison, a killer who'd destroyed the one person unlucky enough to love him.  Reese wasn’t frightened of much, but the very thought of what his love might do to Harold turned him cold.  Harold was gentle, idealistic and endlessly generous. Despite his involvement in espionage, he’d never been an agent; had never tortured or killed.  Finch still had clean hands.  He’d also rescued Reese from Hell and given him everything he had -- a home with him, a purpose, a friend to trust, money and even the clothes on his back…

Reese already owed Finch more than he could ever hope to repay, even if he tracked down every Nazi left in the world.  So touching Harold like he longed to – shocking or frightening him in any way -- was unthinkable.  It didn’t even matter that he only wanted to love his gentle friend.  There was no surer way to lose a friend, than to show an unwanted attraction to them.  Especially if you were both male.  And even good intentions could go disastrously wrong.  He knew that better than anyone.

Reese swallowed hard, remembering what his love had done to Jessica _._ Memory sketched a dark gravestone under a cold, brooding English sky, bright blue eyes and a tender smile he would never see again _._ Losing her had nearly killed him.  Knowing that he was responsible for her death had been the worst part of his pain.  It always would be.  If it weren’t for Harold, that pain would've killed him.  If he lost Harold too…  If Harold died because of him, because he got distracted and made a mistake -- or worse, because Harold found out how he felt, was revolted and fled him like the plague, and thus ended up alone and unprotected, like Jess had been when she’d died…

He’d never survive losing Harold as well.  Reese knew that.  If anything happened to Harold, he’d end himself.

But how could he protect Harold from the threat his love posed to him?

He’d been worrying about that ever since he’d realized the truth. 

Reese paced his room blindly, his fear building as he imagined a Nazi getting past him somehow, and hurting or even shooting Harold.  It was the stuff of his worst nightmares.  “No,” he whispered, shaking his head in instinctive negation.  He ran his hands through his hair, dug his fingers into his skull until it hurt, as if the minor pain could distract him from his mental torment.  But it didn’t work.  His mind kept racing from one disastrous scenario to another.  Harold held captive.  Harold shot right in front of him, because he’d made a mistake. 

He paced faster.  He couldn’t even tell himself the comforting lie that if Harold ever learned the truth about him and left, like a sensible man would, he’d stop hunting Nazis and be safe.  No.  He knew just how utterly determined Finch was about that.  He’d left his beautiful home, his own country and safety itself behind after all, to pursue justice – even though the war was over.  A man like that wouldn’t let a little thing like his former Hellhound’s unwanted, perverted lust for him get in the way of his mission.  Hell no.  If Finch ever learned the unpleasant truth that Reese had fallen in love with him, he’d most likely just disappear out of Reese’s life, then set up shop hunting Nazis somewhere else in South America, with another hired gun to help him.

Probably with someone less qualified than me, Reese thought grimly, and certainly less motivated to protect him.  _Harold could wind up dead_.  _Dead because of me, just like Jessica did_.

 _No!_   _Jesus fuck!  I can’t let that happen_ – _!_

Cool, fearless John Reese froze in his tracks as a wave of something like panic clawed its way up from his gut, at the very thought of that.  The fear that Harold might leave him had haunted him ever since he’d realized he was in love with him.  He suddenly realized that particular fear was edged with anger too, at the idea of someone else taking his place at Harold’s side if Finch left him.  

He shook his head again, bitterly this time.  Getting jealous about that when it hadn’t even happened, and when he should be worrying about Harold instead, was just more proof that he wasn’t fit to be Harold’s lover – if he’d needed more.  How could he even think of something so selfish, at a time like this?  He had to put Harold first, had to figure out how to protect him – from himself. 

He found himself breathing harshly, as though he’d been running.  He closed his eyes and set his jaw so hard his teeth ached.  But it was no use.  He'd been worrying about this for days, without finding an answer.  Nothing came to him now, either.  But it had to.  Reese’s fear intensified, his heart pounding with his distress. 

Focus, dammit! he ordered himself desperately.

He kept his eyes closed, reaching again for the calm he always felt when planning missions, but he couldn’t find it, couldn’t calm down, and nothing came to him.  Again. 

His frustration built.  He was usually very, very good at staying cool and solving problems.  He’d done it while bombs fell and gunfire strafed all around him during the war, and while Nazis hunted him with guns and vicious dogs.  But this problem was different.  It confounded him.  Maybe because for once, he _was_ the problem.  How was he supposed to protect Harold from both Nazis and himself?  How the hell was he supposed to save him from both internal and external threats?  He was too close to this, too involved to see a way out of it. 

He reviewed the problem in his head for the thousandth time.  If he told Finch how he felt, the odds were extremely high that he’d leave him and get killed.  Even if, by some miracle, Harold didn’t mind and they stayed together (which was highly unlikely), his lack of objectivity could also get Harold killed.  And if he did the right thing, the thing he knew he should do and left Harold, again, Finch would then be alone and vulnerable…

Seething, Reese opened his eyes again and paced up and down, back and forth, feeling trapped, his hands curling into fists.  He’d mostly left behind the hollow man he’d become before Harold found him again, but there were still traces of him deep inside, faint echoes that sometimes arose when he got upset.  Right now, Reese felt his hard-won control slipping, felt his former homeless self’s enormous rage rise up inside him again.  He longed for a brutal, vicious fight where he could lash out with hands and feet, break bones and leave his opponent in an unconscious heap, as he’d often done back then.  Failing that, he burned to hit the fucking walls, and smash every stick of furniture in his room.  

He knew that was stupid.  It wouldn’t help a thing.  But he was wound up so tight, he ached for some relief.  He growled in frustration.  He managed to rein in his rage, but only just, and only because the noise of wrecking his room would wake Harold, who’d demand an explanation for it that he couldn’t give.  It was bad enough that he even had this problem; he couldn’t let Harold find out about it, and sure as hell not like that.  But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come up with an answer to this.  It seemed no matter what he did or didn’t do, Harold would be endangered.

Reese paced on, not knowing what else to do.  For what seemed like a long time, he hung on the edge of a precipice, not knowing where to turn, how to fix things.  Shirtless and chilled, he stalked up and down his room like a caged tiger until finally, at long last, an answer came to him.  He stopped short, staring into space as the cold truth washed over him.  There was only one way out.  Only one way to keep Harold safe.

_You can never tell him.  You have to keep your mouth shut, and do your best to suppress how you feel about him._

It wasn’t much of an answer, really.  Nevertheless, Reese grasped at it desperately.  It seemed the only possible solution to his problem, the only way he could truly protect the man he loved.  By keeping his mouth shut.  By not allowing himself to dwell on his forbidden feelings.  By continuing to be Harold’s friend and partner, but no more than that.  It didn’t matter how hard that would be for him; Harold’s friendship itself was a privilege he didn’t deserve, for so many reasons.  Yet somehow, despite his awful past, all the blood on his hands and the terrible mistakes he’d made, Harold still cared for him, still trusted him with his very life.  That alone was a miracle.

All the more reason not to tell him, Reese thought.  He couldn’t take the wonderful life he had now with Harold for granted, couldn’t do anything to jeopardize their friendship or upset the status quo.  If he kept silent, Harold wouldn’t leave, and if he buried his unwelcome, unrequited love deep down, he wouldn’t make stupid mistakes while protecting him.  

If something inside him ached at the idea of that, Reese ignored it.  Life had taught him that there was always a price to pay for love; but at least this time, he’d be the only one to pay it.  He could live with that. 

His panic began to ebb, his breathing steadied and slowed as he clutched at the only plan he could think of, that would save Harold from the danger his unwanted love posed to him.  Silence.  Denial.  It wouldn’t be easy, but he could manage it.  The last few days had proved that.  Besides, he’d done far harder things during the war, hadn’t he?

Or had he?  Reese’s mouth tightened as he thought of the sweet, terrible temptations of the past few days, with Harold constantly at his side, smiling happily at him as they worked together, helping him and contributing brilliant little ideas of his own….  Reese had loved that, loved working with Harold to keep them both safe.  And he’d been fascinated, watching Harold’s remarkable mind at work.  Funny, but he loved his friend's brain as much as his body.  And they worked so well together now, with an easy give-and-take about spy craft that Reese had never had with anyone else.

Sometimes, in some ways, their closeness now reminded him of what he’d once had with Jessica.  But he knew it could never be like that with Harold.  They would never have sex.  Reese had no right to even touch him in a romantic way.  He knew that, but it was so hard to stop wanting it.  The whole time they’d been working together on modifying their safe house, part of Reese had been one massive ache. 

He set his jaw, and told himself that burying his hopeless love wouldn’t always be this hard.  Starting today, he’d be back out in the field again where he belonged, far from Harold and the endless temptation he embodied.  And he’d kept so many deep, dark secrets for years, after all.  What was one more?

Still, part of him throbbed like an open wound at the prospect of never kissing Harold, never caressing him, never taking him in his arms again to tell him --

_No._

He crushed his longing ruthlessly, knowing it was purely selfish.  He’d already taken an unforgivable risk by grabbing Harold once, in a drunken haze.  If he gave in again, did what he longed to do now, there could be only one result:  danger and another gravestone.  He would lose Harold, and Harold would probably die.  Another good person dead, because of him.  He couldn’t let that happen.

 _I can take care of Harold_ , he told himself sternly.  _Be his friend_.  _Protect him, tease him, make him smile.  Hunt Nazis down for him, like he hired me to do.  That’ll be enough.  It’ll have to be, because that’s all he wants from me.  And giving Harold what he wants is all that matters..._

Now – set all that aside, he thought.  You’ve got work to do.  A mission.

Reese felt a wave of relief.  Now that he’d finally figured out a solution to his most pressing problem, he decided to implement it immediately.  He needed to start repressing his feelings, so he could focus entirely on the job at hand.  The military had taught him how to clear his mind so that nothing else existed but the task before him.  He blew out a breath, closed his eyes again and reached for calm again.  This time it came, settling over him slowly. 

 _The_ _mission_ , he told himself again.  _That’s all that counts right now.  Nothing else matters…_

He pushed his unruly passion down and down into the blackness deep inside him, until it finally subsided and he could think clearly.  He didn’t even try to kid himself that it was gone.  Love could never be forgotten.  It became part of you, a secret swirling in your blood, inscribed on your bones, breathed out invisibly with each breath.  His love for Harold would always be part of him, like his love for Jess still was.  But he could, and would, suppress his hopeless feelings for his partner.  He figured he’d pay for his repression later, probably in the form of nightmares.  But since there was nothing he wouldn’t suffer gladly for Harold, he didn’t care.

 _The mission_ , he chanted to himself again.  _Think of the mission, nothing else_.

Feeling settled at last, his messy emotions under wraps for the moment, Reese opened his eyes again and turned his mind to practical things.  At least he could put his failure to sleep to good use, as he often had before.  It wasn’t even four a.m. yet.  It was still dark, and he could use that to his advantage.  He pulled on his shirt, pants, socks and shoes and located the tiny flashlight Harold had made for him, for clandestine work.  He pocketed it while he reviewed his plan, what he needed to accomplish that morning.

If his next mission was just another distraction, at least this time it was a useful one.

Today, he was in the market for a Buenos Aires’ policeman’s uniform.  Well, on the hunt for one might be a more accurate description, he thought, smirking a little as he pulled on his jacket and watch.  He could’ve just had Harold make him a phony police cadet ID, so he could go to whatever supply store sold uniforms locally and buy one.  Harold was extremely good at forging papers, and a portion of the lab he’d set up on the second floor of their safe house was dedicated to that.

Sure, he could’ve just walked meekly into some police supply store with forged papers and quietly bought a uniform.  But where would the fun be in that, when he could steal one instead?  His frustration and anger hadn’t entirely gone, and a bit of action would help rid him of them.  He no longer burned for a fight, but some recon. mingled with a little theft – yes, that would give him the release he still wanted.

Reese’s grin widened as he anticipated the morning’s hunt.  And when he slipped silently out the front door a few minutes later, while Finch was still sleeping, he did so with his usual care, his eyes and ears pricked for anything unusual.  But the area around their safe house was reassuringly quiet.  He locked the door and reset all their alarms with the small, radio-controlled device Harold had invented for both of them, then put his back in his pocket.  The little black control was a marvel of design and engineering, and so small!  Like nothing Reese had ever seen.  Harold was amazing at miniaturization.  Reese loved his tiny control, like he loved all of Harold’s marvelous inventions.  He’d left a hot cup of tea on Harold’s night stand as a little ‘thank you' for it, and for his help these past few days.  As soon as he found a bakery that made the raspberry scones Harold liked, he’d leave those for him in the morning too, before he set off on missions.

He smiled for an instant, imagining Harold waking to the tea’s delicious, familiar aroma, sitting up in bed and enjoying its warmth, his blue eyes still only half open and his hair tousled with sleep...   _Adorable._

Before his imagination could stray further, into places he couldn’t allow it to go, Reese forced his thoughts back to his mission.  He meant to kill two birds with one stone that morning:  get a cop's uniform, which would be incredibly useful in future, and check out a certain dirty cop in the process.  He took a cab downtown, waited until the driver was gone, then circled the police station where Finch had told him that Detective Fusco worked several times, on foot.  He made sure he was on the opposite side of the street from the front door when he passed it, so even if someone happened to be looking out of the window, no one inside would see him clearly in the pre-dawn dimness.   

A little recon. established that it was a simple, white two-story block of a building.  Functional, no frills.  One front entrance, two ground floor exits out back.  A few windows out front, but none in the back, which opened onto a narrow alley. 

Reese ghosted into the back alley, and found it empty.  He got down on one knee there, near the station's back doors, to look closely at the pavement.  He thought he saw something, and turned his flashlight on to examine the ground more closely.  He saw the edges of dark stains there, both splashes and sprays.  Some older, darker ones and some that looked newer.  Stains that someone had mostly washed away, probably with a bucket of water, so only their edges remained. 

Reese clicked off the light and shook his head.  Sloppy, that.  Water would’ve washed most things away completely, but not blood.  Not entirely.  And he’d seen enough bloodstains in his career to know every kind on sight.  These were definitely the faint remains of them.  So -- beatings must take place out here.  Beatings that maybe dirty cops didn't want cleaner cops, or their bosses, to see.  They took their cuffed victims into the back alley behind the station and ‘tuned them up’ in secret, then washed most of their blood off the pavement afterwards. 

Those stains told a story.  Finch's intel. on Fusco had already established the presence of dirty cops here.  But the bloodstains the dirty cops hadn't taken great pains to hide, told Reese even more; that at least a few of the higher-ups knew what went on out here, and sanctioned it.  If they hadn’t, those stains wouldn’t be there. 

None of it surprised Reese.  He just wondered how far it went.  It was possible that the corruption going on here went all the way to the top.  Or at least the top of the hierarchy inside this station.

 _Interesting_ … 

That might make penetrating the station easier for him.  Where corruption ruled, people were usually lax.  Uncaring.  Arrogant and sloppy, like those partially removed bloodstains outside their back door.  They didn’t notice much.  Reese wondered if that was the case at Fusco’s station.  He’d soon find out. 

He slipped back out onto the street fronting the station.  Investigating the nearby blocks, he looked for a small café that hungry cops might frequent for coffee, pastries and sandwiches.  Luckily for him, there seemed to be only one, a little old place called “El Gato Negro”.  The Black Cat, he translated wryly as he slinked by in the dimness.  Funny…

He then plotted the likeliest route a cop leaving the “Policia Metropolitana” station #9 would take to get to “El Gato”, and the best ambush points along it.  He found a convenient alley several blocks from the station house, far enough away that he didn’t need to worry about being discovered by another cop while he was busy “borrowing” a uniform.  He spotted a large trash bin near the mouth of the alley too, and several more further in.   That was also ideal.  Stashing the rope and tape he’d brought with him behind the nearest bin, he settled down beside it to wait.  He’d only have a few seconds to act when a cop happened by, but given that the night shift should be clocking out soon, as the day shift came on duty, he figured that he wouldn’t have long to wait.  As soon as the night shift ended, hungry cops would head for the café, and he’d get his chance.

Sure enough, less than twenty minutes later two cops ambled by, chatting about what they wanted for breakfast.  But Reese needed just one cop, not two.  So he stayed put for the moment.  He didn’t want an audience for this.  Witnesses always made things more complicated than they needed to be.  Even though this kind of op. was fun for him, it also had its risks.  He knew the dangers of over-confidence, and he never forgot the caution the SAS and the British Army had drilled into him.  Cockiness got even experienced covert agents killed.  He and Finch both needed to be really careful here, in the heart of enemy territory, where they had no rights and no backup.  Wait, he told himself.  Another cop will be along…

A few minutes later, Reese tensed eagerly as another cop walked by.  But he was short, and far too heavy for Reese to have possibly fit into his uniform.  He rolled his eyes and waited some more. 

Finally, some ten minutes later, a cop strode by all alone.  He was taller and broad-shouldered, nearly Reese’s height and of a similar build.  He was just who Reese had been waiting for.  He waited until the cop was almost past the alley, then rose and rushed him silently from behind, kidney-punching him so he doubled over with a groan of pain.  Since Reese didn't want to have to really hurt him or to let the man get a good look at him, he caught him, wrapped an arm around his neck and pressed hard on his carotid artery as he folded up.  The cop sagged in his hold within seconds, out like a light.  

Reese dragged him back further into the dark alley, feeling the rush of satisfaction he always got from besting an opponent.  He felt it wash away a little of the tension that'd been dogging him, and figured that finding Fusco would take care of the rest.  And the cop he’d grabbed was fine.  Reese had gone easy on him, in case he was a good cop.  He’d have a few bruises when he woke up, but no serious injuries.

Perfect.  Step one had gone like clockwork.

Now for step two.  Reese smiled, and dragged the unconscious policeman between a big garbage bin and another slightly smaller trash can, shielding them from view at either end of the alley.

“Thanks, Officer Gonzalez,” he murmured sardonically, pulling on the thin pair of gloves he’d brought as he took the man’s badge and I.D., and started stripping off his uniform.  He couldn’t afford to leave fingerprints behind when he was done borrowing the cop’s clothes. 

He had one tense moment, as a drunk staggered by the far end of the alley when he’d almost finished changing.  He was just taking off Gonzalez’ shoes when the man paused at the mouth of the alley, squinting towards them.  Reese froze, silently watching him over the top edge of the trash bin, knowing the man couldn’t really see them.   It was still too dark, and they were too well hidden.  As long as he stayed quiet, the drunk should lose interest and move on. 

Sure enough, the rumpled, bearded man just shook his head, muttered something and shambled away.  Reese knew his good luck might be running out, though.  Someone more curious or with better vision might happen by soon.  Experience had taught him to allow for the unlikely and unexpected, out in the field.  So he hurried to get Gonzalez’ shoes on.  They pinched a bit, but they were regulation and wouldn’t give him away at the Station, which was all that mattered.

Once he’d finished changing into Gonzalez’ uniform, Reese taped his mouth shut and tied his wrists and ankles with the rope he’d brought.  He left the knots a bit loose, so Gonzalez would be able to work his way out of his bonds without too much trouble when he came to in a few hours.  Reese would be long gone by then, and Gonzalez hadn’t seen his face, so he’d be left with nothing more than a headache, a back ache and a mystery.  He bundled his own clothes, shoes, gloves and flashlight up in a bag he’d brought for the purpose, and put them underneath the other garbage can.  They might be a bit smelly by the time he got back, but it couldn’t be helped.  He might need them again, and it was extremely doubtful that anyone else would find them there.  But in the unlikely event that anyone did, he’d just go back to their safe house in his borrowed uniform.

He flipped open the large trash bin’s lid, and lowered the unconscious cop into it carefully, so that he was lying face up and wouldn’t smother.  Then he closed the lid, propping it open ever so slightly on one side with a bit of newspaper so the bin wouldn’t be airless and Gonzalez could breathe.  Then, settling Gonzalez’ cap lightly onto his head and whistling softly to himself, he headed for Station #9.


	10. Chapter 10

As he walked into Station #9, Gonzalez’ stolen shoes pinched slightly at his toes.  Ignoring that, Reese pulled the brim of his hat down to shade his eyes a bit, but kept his stride loose and confident, as if he had every right to be there.  Nothing betrayed spies like visible fear or nervousness.  He’d never had that problem.  He got a kick out of pitting himself against his enemies by boldly walking into their strongholds like this, disguised as one of them.  It was a tactic that’d worked well for him in the past.  Besides, if he was right about the laxity and corruption going on here, no one was likely to look at him too closely.

Testing that theory, he nodded casually at the cop behind the front desk as he moved toward him.  The man eyed him but then just nodded in return, letting him pass without comment.  Smirking to himself, Reese headed down the short passageway to his right, guessing that it most likely led to a squad room that must belong to the detectives.  He wondered if he’d find Fusco there.  Two cops sipping coffee on their way out gazed at him briefly as they walked by, probably noting his unfamiliar face.  Apparently reassured by his uniform, they passed him without giving him a second look either.

Pleased by the success of his impersonation so far, Reese kept going.  When he entered the room at the end of the hall, he discovered he was right -- it was the squad room.  It was large and filled with battered desks topped with nameplates, cups of coffee, phones, typewriters and big stacks of files.  There were a few big old wooden filing cabinets scattered around it, too.  Perfect cover if needed, he thought.  The dingy room bore the scents of bad coffee, cigarette smoke, and more than a hint of stale sweat.  A few cops sat at their desks, answering phones or typing up reports.  They were in suits rather than uniforms – detectives, he surmised.  They had small portable fans at their elbows, which weren’t in use yet as it was still early and relatively cool.  The squad room desks bore suspicious stains, and they all had small holes near their edges, ringed with metal.  Their purpose was clear, as several suspects already sat scowling by a few of them, handcuffed to the desks through the holes.  

So this is what a police station looks like in a Fascist state, he thought.  It reminded him a bit of the Gestapo jail he’d once been held in.  It had the same dark, no frills, efficiently cruel look to it.

One man seated near Reese looked like a habitual drunk.  Face puffy, he slumped bonelessly in a chair, his head tilted down on his chest, snoring despite being handcuffed to the edge of a desk.  Reese felt an unwilling twinge of something like sympathy.  He’d been like that guy, not so very long ago.  When he was paying for his whiskey by fighting in underground clubs in New York, he’d narrowly escaped arrest several times.  They weren’t fond memories.  He looked away, not wanting to think about that right now. 

Another man across the room had dried blood on his face from some violent encounter.  As the cop next to him typed up a report, he stared gloomily into space, too immersed in his own troubles to do more than glance sullenly at Reese as he came in. 

Reese had guessed rightly about this place.  No one questioned his presence or even seemed to care that he was there.  _Perfect_.  So far, it’d been so easy getting in here that it hardly even qualified as a mission.  He hadn’t had to charm or shoot anyone.  Wearing a uniform, he was practically invisible.  The only bit of bother had been knocking out Officer Gonzalez, and that wasn’t hard.  There weren’t even very many cops in the squad room.  Now that the two he’d passed in the hallway had gone, there were only four left, two at desks and two standing at the back of the room.  None of them gave him more than a brief look.  He wondered if the uniformed cops in the hallway were the ones who’d arrested the drunk.  Maybe they’d used his little snooze as the perfect chance to sneak away and take a break before questioning him. 

Whatever the reason for it, their departure was a stroke of luck for him.  Since he needed to pilfer, photograph and return a police file, the less cops around the better.  If he had to, he could handle the few who were left.  He had Gonzalez’ sidearm after all, and was an expert marksman.  The men the cops had cuffed to their desks obviously weren’t going to cause him any trouble either.  Dismissing them from his thoughts with the ease of a trained operative, he continued his threat assessment by scanning the rest of the room.

Besides the few cops he’d already noted, there were no threats there either; but he did see something interesting at the back of the room.  So he started in on the bit of surveillance he’d planned.  Finch had a photograph of Fusco that Reese had memorized, and he spotted the man standing near a desk at the back of the room with his nameplate on it.  Fusco was talking to a taller man, balding and broad-shouldered, whose back was turned to Reese. 

Reese angled across the room in their direction, got as close as he could, then slipped behind a filing cabinet that hid him from Fusco and the guy he was talking to.  In case anyone was watching, he found a drawer near its edge, pulled it out as if he were looking for a file, removed one at random and pretended to scan it while he watched the two men covertly.  Fusco had wavy brown hair, shrewd dark eyes and a square, tough-looking face.  He was built like a bulldog, short and wide, with a suggestion of muscle under his bulk.  He looked as tenacious as those dogs, too, Reese thought.  Stubborn.  The type who’d get his teeth in something and not let go.  Good.  That trait could be very useful in an asset.

But he hadn’t forgotten Harold's statement that Fusco was a dirty cop.  A man he could use, but never respect or trust.  Curious, he shifted his gaze to examine the taller man Fusco was talking to.  He still had his back turned, but there was something familiar about him --

As he watched, the man turned and Reese could see his profile.  He sucked in a breath.  Recognition sparked a wave of rage that flushed his whole body with heat, even as shock rooted him to the spot.  _Fuck.  It can’t be!_

For an instant, the room faded out around him and Reese was flooded with memories of his past -- of the danger, sweat and pain of his second stint in North Africa. 

_STILLS!_

Fusco was talking to Reese’s former SAS partner, Jerry Stills! 

_What the fuck--?_

Despite Reese’s training and experience, he froze, his heart pounding as he looked at Stills. 

_It can’t be him!  How can that bastard be here?  I thought he was dead!_

Stunned, he groped for answers, but found none.  His mind blank with shock, he just stared, blinking to make sure he wasn’t imagining this.  But Stills remained solid and all too real.  Finally Reese’s training kicked in, and he forced himself to look away before his intent stare attracted Stills' attention.  He looked down, flipping through the file he held, pretending to read its contents while he tried to calm down.  After a few tense seconds, he shot another glance at the man next to Fusco again, still finding it hard to believe what his eyes were telling him. 

 _Shit_.  _It’s him all right!_

Stills was a bit older and maybe fifteen pounds heavier, with a rounder face and a lot less hair than he’d had when Reese had last seen him, but there was no doubt about his identity.  Reese would’ve known him anywhere.  He couldn’t quite hear what he and Fusco were saying, but he caught a word or two in Spanish, a language he hadn’t known that Stills spoke.  He recognized the tone and cadence of Stills’ voice as well.  Cool, terse, impatient – and totally familiar.

_Fuck!_

Hearing Stills’ voice cinched it.  Now he knew beyond doubt that he’d found his old partner.  Rage built inside Reese, beating in his head, throbbing in his veins.  Despite all his training and experience, the hot, primitive rush of it nearly overwhelmed him.  He wanted to leap across the few feet separating them and break the fucking traitor’s neck, for what he’d done.  Stills’ betrayal of his trust, of their partnership, the men they’d worked with, the uniform they’d both worn, and of his own country…  The extent of his treachery was still unfathomable to Reese. 

Memories flooded back to him.  He remembered how Stills’ covert missions for the SAS had often gone wrong during the war.  It was one of the reasons he’d started to distrust him.  Stills always had some excuse for it, and covert ops were so dangerous that it’d been hard to know for sure at the time if he was a traitor, or just unlucky.  But Jerry had been a competent SAS officer, or they wouldn’t have sent him to North Africa in the first place.  Reese knew from experience that Stills was smart and cool under pressure, so he’d doubted that his missions failed because he’d screwed up, lost his nerve or made mistakes.  Somehow though, a lot of good men who were either members of or helping local resistance groups got killed or captured in Jerry’s ops there.  

As time went by, Reese’s doubts about him had grown.  Still, he hadn’t wanted to believe that his own partner could actually be a traitor.  He’d been concerned enough to begin working independently from him, though.  Whether Stills was unlucky or a traitor, he hadn’t wanted his own contacts to wind up dead because of Jerry.

Though he’d wondered about Stills, he’d never thought that his own partner would turn on him.  But after his capture, he’d always been convinced that he had.  Stills and his lover, Kara Stanton, were the only suspects who made sense.  Reese wondered briefly if Kara was here too.  He doubted it.  Their liaison had happened years ago and back then, Kara’s relationships had never lasted longer than a few months.  If she was still alive, he doubted that would’ve changed.  Besides, he wasn’t much interested in Kara.  Though he suspected she might’ve been involved in betraying him, he couldn’t be certain.  So he wasn’t going to go looking for her.  She wasn’t his main concern.  Kara hadn’t been his partner -- Jerry was.  Reese knew he’d betrayed that bond; Jerry’s actions had proved it.  So he’d make sure Stills paid for it.

The only consolation Reese ever had concerning Stills’ betrayal, was that it hadn’t gone as far as Jerry must’ve intended it to.  After they arrested Reese, the Gestapo had searched his apartment vainly for his code book with all his contacts’ names and related information in it.  If they’d found it, Jerry would’ve also been responsible for the deaths of about a hundred people in one fell swoop.  Reese’s contacts were extensive, and if the Germans had discovered their names, everyone who’d helped him, even their children, would’ve been arrested and sent to Nazi death camps, or shot on the spot if they’d resisted.  That must’ve been what Stills had intended.  He’d sure as hell known it would be the likely result when he’d sold Reese out.  He and his contacts had survived only because he’d hidden that book so well, and because he hadn’t broken and told the Gestapo where it was, despite their repeated interrogations and brutal torture.  Unlike Jerry, he’d protected those who’d helped him, bought their lives with his blood and silence. 

After all these years and everything he’d lost because of him, it was good to know he finally had the upper hand with Stills.  Jerry didn’t know that he’d found him.  In fact, the odds were good that he had no idea Reese was still alive, let alone in Buenos Aires, breathing down his neck.  Stills must’ve believed that after he betrayed his partner to the Germans, there’d be no one left who’d know what he’d done or where he’d run to.  He’d probably thought the Gestapo would break Reese, find his book, shoot him, then round up everyone who’d helped him and murder them all too.  It was what usually happened to spies they arrested.  Reese knew Jerry hadn’t counted on him escaping the Gestapo instead; especially not after he’d shot him to prevent it.  After that, Stills must’ve thought his partner and all his other intended victims would soon be dead, and that he’d gotten away with it.  He hadn’t hung around long enough afterwards to learn otherwise.  All these years, he must’ve believed he was safe, half a world away from the scene of his crimes.

But Reese had refused to die.  He’d hung on despite torture, blood loss, severe injuries and a difficult, harrowing recovery while the Nazis hunted for him.  He owed Stills for all that.  He stared at his former partner with cold, narrowed eyes _.  You’re in for a little surprise, mate_.

He allowed himself a few seconds to savor that thought.  But just contemplating revenge was scant comfort.  After what Stills had done to him, it wasn’t enough.  He needed to _act_.  He could never forget how the Gestapo had strung him up on a pole naked, like a side of beef, and carved him up with whips and knives.  Or how someone had shot him from a concealed position, right before they’d shown up to arrest him.  Though Reese hadn’t seen the sniper, since Stills was an expert marksman, it wasn’t hard to guess who he must’ve been.  He’d always figured that shot had been Stills’ attempt to hedge his bet, to injure him so he couldn’t escape the Gestapo, and Jerry could be sure to collect his bounty for betraying him.  And it had worked. 

Remembering it just stoked his rage.  Despite his best efforts, Reese could barely control himself.  He ached to rush him -- and break Stills’ neck with one quick twist of his strong hands.  He knew so many ways to kill, and he ran through several in his mind as he watched his former partner. 

Then again -- a quick death’s too good for him, he thought darkly.  Slower would be better.  It’s what he deserves.  He seethed, finding self-control almost impossible while he was just a few yards from Jerry Stills.

Because of him, because the Gestapo had me, I didn’t even know Jess had died for weeks.  I didn’t even make it back to London for her funeral _._  I didn’t know anything about any of it, until it was far too late.

_I should kill him for that alone!_

Every muscle trembled with the urge _._

Something stronger than Reese’s rage and hatred held him back though.  It whispered, _wait_.  Love bound him, held him still though he longed to attack.  He’d lost Jess, but someone else had staked a claim on him since.  His affection for Harold, his duty to him, and the fact that murdering Stills in the middle of a police station filled with cops in Argentina would be tantamount to suicide, was all that kept him from killing Stills where he stood.

It was a thin leash, though.  His urge to kill was so intense that he had to argue with himself, run through dire possible consequences of it in his mind, to keep his rage in check.

_I can’t do it.  Killing Stills here would be stupid.  It would endanger our mission -- endanger Harold.  All the cops here are armed, and some of them may be good shots.  They’re not fast enough to stop me from killing him, but there might just be enough of them to kill me afterwards or worse, to wound and capture me if things went sour.  And what if I failed to kill Stills?  It’s not bloody likely, but if worst came to worst and he survived my attempt, with what he knows about me, they might be able to find Harold.  He somehow found out that I was Harold's bodyguard years ago, before I finished my SAS training…_

He’d never told anyone about the months he’d spent guarding Finch.  Not even Jess.  All he’d ever said to her, just before he’d left for Africa the second time, was that Finch was a friend she could call if she ever needed help while he was away fighting.  He’d never told her how they met, or anything else about him.  Jessica had never met Jerry, and Reese had never mentioned Harold’s name to anyone else.  Yet Stills had found Finch's name out somehow.  Jerry had asked him about Harold once, after he’d been reassigned from Finch’s bodyguard detail to SAS training.  Reese had never forgotten it.

“That guy you were assigned to.  Finch.  What’s he like?” Stills had tossed the question out carelessly, but Reese had frowned at him anyway.  “That’s classified info.  How the hell did you find out about it?”  Stills had just grinned and said, “Even in the SAS, word gets around, mate.”  Reese had shaken his head and glared a warning at him in reply.  “Not from me, it doesn’t.” 

Stills had been smart enough to let it go at that, and since he’d never brought it up again, Reese had too.  They’d been newly assigned partners then, and despite that odd question, he’d been forced to trust Stills.  He’d had no choice back then, but he knew better now. 

Stills posed a threat to both him and Finch.  It wasn’t likely that he would even remember Finch’s name after all these years.  It was less likely that he’d ever guess that they were working together now.  But it wasn’t impossible; and Reese had seen enough spies discovered through the smallest of clues during the war, to discount the possibility that it could happen to him and Finch too.  He could think of several possible scenarios for exposure off the top of his head.  If Stills got a good look at him for instance, he’d be arrested, and probably tortured to find out if he’d been working with someone else, then shot as a spy, in short order.  Peron’s secret police didn’t mess around.  Or if one of the ex-Nazis they were hunting ever got wise to their pursuit, managed to snap a photo of him and gave it to the cops here, Stills could identify him.  No doubt Jerry would try to hunt him down and betray him a second time; and this time, he’d make sure that Reese wound up dead. 

Reese ground his teeth, suppressing a snarl.  He’d had the bad luck to run into the only man in all of South America who could not only recognize him, but who also knew his real name and some of his past.  The critical part, that included the SAS and Harold. Hell, for all he knew, Jerry might know more than just Finch’s real name.  He might know what he looked like, too.  Be able to identify him.  The possibility chilled him.

_That’s just one more reason to kill the bastard.  He could endanger Harold -- and I’ll never let that happen.  That traitorous fucker’s never getting within a mile of Harold._

Yet he knew he shouldn’t kill Stills here, either.  Despite his towering urge to snap his neck, it was too dangerous.  His frustration mounted.

But if there was one skill the SAS had honed in Reese, it was adaptability.  He was a master at changing bad luck into good, and turning tough situations to his advantage.  He stared at Stills, fighting to think past his scalding rage.  How could he make discovering his old enemy here work for him?

Okay, I can’t kill him -- _yet_.

_That just means I need a plan._

While watching Stills, he’d clenched his fists so tightly around the file he held that they hurt.  If anyone looked over at him and noticed his white-knuckled grip, they’d know something was wrong.  Reese swallowed hard and loosened his stranglehold on the file, taking deep breaths to calm himself and control his urge to kill.  If there had ever been a time when he’d needed his wits about him, it was now.  To plan, he had to focus and think clearly.

He took another breath and sought a mental image of the one person who anchored and centered him in his new life:  Harold Finch.

John Mars had once belonged completely and happily to Jessica Mars.  John Reese, the man who’d risen reluctantly from his ashes after she died, belonged to Harold Finch just as thoroughly.  Though their relationship wasn’t physical, it was as meaningful to Reese in other ways as his marriage had been.  Their bond was different, but it still went deep.  Staring down at the file in his hands, he thought of his quiet, brilliant friend.  Finch was his purpose, his reason to live – and all the love his scarred heart had left to give was now Harold’s, and his alone. 

When Harold found him after the war, Reese had been lost, a drunken derelict with no hope.  But Finch had given him hope and so much more.  He’d not only saved him, but given him an important mission.  He’d trusted him with that mission, believed in Reese’s ability to carry it out when no one else would’ve. 

I got sober for him, he reflected.  I’d do anything for him.  I’d die for him, with no regrets.

Harold was the only man he truly respected now, and the most precious person in Reese’s life.  His quiet courage, his formidable intelligence, his kindness and rare but truly sweet smiles, lit up Reese's whole world.  Scientist, engineer, inventor, lover of books, culture, music and opera, spy master and seeker of justice for his people.  Harold was so many things, all of them amazing.  He was truly extraordinary, unlike anyone Reese had ever known.  Small, slight and injured, someone most people would pass on the street without noticing, Harold nonetheless had an enormous heart, and more courage and dedication than some of the soldiers Reese had served with.  Despite his pain and injuries, and the fact that he could’ve stayed safely in France, retired and enjoying his wealth, he’d chosen to leave his home and travel the world to wage a secret war against monsters instead. 

And Harold was depending on Reese to help him wage that war.  So he had to stay focused and get the information they needed to help a murdered man’s family, and hopefully figure out who’d killed him.  They had to try to determine if their current target, Xavier Wulff, was the one who’d pulled the trigger.  Finch wanted to know if he’d killed Hirschfeld so they could let his family know that justice had been done when they captured Wulff.  It was really important.  Reese couldn’t endanger his partner or fail in his task, not even to kill Jerry Stills, the rat bastard.

_Especially not for him.  Finch is worth a thousand times more than Stills.  Ten thousand._

The few minutes he’d taken to focus on a far better, more trustworthy man than his old partner had served their purpose.  Reese had calmed down.  His breathing evened out, his grip on the file eased and his mind cleared as his self-control began to return.  His priorities clear once again, he started to plan.

He wouldn’t kill Stills.  Not just yet, anyway.  The odds were stacked against him here, the risks too great.

But nothing and no one – not even Harold – could stay his hand forever.  As far as Reese was concerned, the second he’d seen Stills, he’d become a target almost as important as the Nazis they were hunting.  He’d helped them, after all.  Switched sides and sold his partner out to the Gestapo.  That treachery had been bad enough, but it had also set a dark, terrible chain of events into motion that had left Reese lost and suicidal in New York.  At first, he’d blamed himself for everything, especially Jessica’s death and his weakness in losing himself in a bottle afterwards.  He would always blame himself for those things.  But over time, he’d come to realize that Stills was the man behind all the rest of it.  He’d set all the dominoes to falling in Reese’s life when he’d turned traitor and betrayed his partner.  There was only one remedy for that. 

Even though I can’t kill you here, Reese promised Stills silently, I _will_ kill you.  _Soon_.

That was the gist of his plan:  follow Stills and find a safer, more private place to take care of him.  

Then he got a better idea.  Why stop there, when he could kill two dirty birds with one stone, so to speak?  He smiled as an even darker, more devious plan started to take shape in his mind.  He’d thought of a way to get something more than justice out of killing Stills.  If he managed it right, he could also use Jerry’s death as leverage to turn Fusco into an asset.  If they were more than just co-workers, if he and Fusco were friends, well that would be a nice bit of revenge on Jerry – using his execution to force his friend Fusco to work for him and Finch.  Yeah, that might work...  He’d always been good at improvising. 

He shook himself.  He wasn’t sure how long he’d stood there, seemingly absorbed in the contents of the file he held, but actually deciding Stills’ and Fusco’s fate.  It’d probably just been a few minutes.  Luckily for him, Fusco and Stills were still absorbed in their conversation and he was so well hidden that neither had seen him, though he was a scant six yards away.  But the time he’d taken to breathe and consider the situation had reminded him that he had other work to do before he dealt with Stills; and  he needed to make sure Jerry didn’t get a good look at him while he did it. 

Staying safely hidden behind the filing cabinet, he reached for the drawer labeled G-H, put the file he’d been carrying in there to free up his hands, and started to look for another file, the one he’d come for.  The police file on Samuel Hirschfeld’s murder.  He couldn’t be sure the it was in this cabinet, of course.  He might have to search every one in the squad room to find it.  He just hoped he’d get lucky and find it in the first place he looked.

He thumbed through the folders automatically, one ear cocked for the sound of Fusco and Stills’ murmuring voices, the other listening for anyone approaching him.  His mind still raced with questions about Jerry.  _After betraying me to the Gestapo, I always wondered where he ran to, the cowardly fucker!  If he survived the war at all.  Since he turned traitor and went over to the losing side, I figured he hadn’t.  I thought he’d probably gone to ground somewhere in Germany or Spain, and gotten killed by either the Russians or the Americans during the war.  Or the Resistance after.  I never thought he’d not only survive, but come to Argentina and start a new life…_

He supposed the possibility should’ve occurred to him.  He’d had plenty of time to think about Stills’ fate, after all.  He’d hated Jerry for what seemed like forever.  After his court martial, when he’d been sweating down in the bowels of that old freighter on his way back to England, he’d often fantasized about killing him.  Later, when he’d been homeless and fighting illegal bouts in New York, he’d often imagined Stills’ face in place of his opponents’ when he fought.  It’d helped him take them down faster.  But that had all been imaginary.  In reality, in the rare moments when he’d thought about it while he was sober, he’d been fairly sure that Stills was dead.  Jerry was a traitor who’d picked the wrong side in the war, after all.  Most people in that situation didn’t survive it.  Even if they escaped the authorities, people knew what they’d done and war made your neighbors and townspeople unforgiving.  Not to mention all the soldiers, partisans and Resistance fighters who’d survived.  One way or another, traitors were usually caught after the war, and killed.  He’d hoped Jerry was one of them.

Reese had been so busy lately -- hunting Nazis with his new partner, learning his way around a new city and language, helping Finch set up their safe house and trying to deal with his growing feelings for Harold – that he’d shoved Stills to the back of his mind.  Since Jerry's whereabouts had been a mystery for years anyway, one that he’d been unlikely ever to solve, he’d mostly quit thinking of him.  So it’d stunned him to find Jerry here, not only alive and well, but chatting familiarly with Detective Fusco, of all people. 

 _What the fuck is Stills doing here?_   The question beat in his head, a disturbing, repetitive chant that distracted him.  He had to find out.  Like Fusco, Stills wasn’t wearing a uniform, but judging by the way they stood close together, it seemed they’d known each other for a while.  Maybe they were friends.  Was Stills a civilian, or did he work here with Fusco?  Though Jerry wasn’t in uniform, he still could’ve become a cop after the war.  Was he a Detective too?

Christ. 

Reese gave the squad room behind him a second look, trying to figure it out, but didn’t see Stills' nameplate on any of the empty desks.  That didn’t mean it wasn’t there, though.  He couldn’t see most of the names on those plates from his current position near the back of the room.  Fusco and Stills’ close proximity, obvious familiarity and lowered voices while they talked certainly suggested that Stills could be Fusco’s co-worker.  Maybe even his partner.

Reese considered that dark possibility.  Shit – Stills the fucking traitor, paired up with a dirty cop in a corrupt police station in a country full of ex-Nazis!  I can just imagine all the crimes they could commit, while hiding behind their badges...  If Stills is a cop, Buenos Aires would sure as hell be better off without him.

 _Good thing I found you, Jerry_ , he thought grimly.  _Someone’s got to put a stop to you_.

Time hadn’t blunted his contempt for the man who should’ve guarded his back, but instead had betrayed him for the worst reason of all:  greed.  He figured that money must’ve been Stills’ motive anyway.  They’d never fought over anything, and he’d kept his doubts about his partner to himself, so Stills had had no reason to hate him; and they hadn’t been rivals for a woman, so jealousy wasn’t the problem either.  Stills had been sleeping with Kara Stanton, and Reese had made it clear that he had zero interest in her.  Though he’d always wondered if his rejection might’ve motivated her to betray him, it hadn’t been Jerry’s reason. 

That had to have been money.  Well, maybe greed mixed with fear.  Jerry might’ve been worried that Reese would find out that he was a double agent, warn the SAS about it, and get him killed.  So he’d struck first.  Jerry the Judas, he thought, his mouth thinning bitterly.  The Gestapo had paid handsomely for British spies back then, and Stills had disappeared the day after his arrest.  He knew it because later, after he’d escaped the Gestapo, his contacts in the Resistance had tried to find Stills for him without success.  They’d all wanted revenge on the traitor they’d suspected of betraying him.  And once Reese used one of their radios to contact the SAS to let them know that he was still alive, probably no thanks to Jerry, they’d been looking for Stills too.  If they’d gotten their hands on him, they’d’ve shot him as a traitor.  But Jerry had just vanished.  Deserted.  Even the SAS hadn’t been able to find out where he’d gone. 

At least Reese finally had the answer to that mystery.  _Betraying me must’ve been Stills’ ticket out of the war._

The moment he was arrested, Jerry must’ve taken the Nazis’ blood money and run all the way to Argentina with it.  It would explain why the Resistance and the SAS had failed to find and execute him for treason and desertion, how he’d survived the war and both military and civilian retribution afterwards, and what he was doing here years later, safe and sound in a country filled with Germans and controlled by their Fascist former allies.  He wasn’t sure yet if Stills was a cop, but it made sense that a former soldier might choose law enforcement as a new career, too.  He’d have the right skills, and it would make him look respectable despite his former crimes.  For a piece of scum like Stills, Argentina had been the perfect place to hide.

Until today anyway, Reese mused with dark satisfaction.

 _I wonder when Stills learned to speak Spanish.  Don’t think he knew it when we were partners.  Must’ve picked it up after he came here.  He had plenty of time.  If he got here while the war was still going on, he’s had years to learn it.  I should’ve guessed that he’d flee to South America, where so many Nazis ran after the war_ …  _He_ _must feel right at home here, with all the other rats_.

Reese shifted a bit to his left again, just far enough towards the edge of the filing cabinet to keep a wary eye on Stills and Fusco while he looked for Hirschfeld’s file.  They were still talking, intent on each other, and their voices were still lowered so he couldn’t make out much of what they were saying. 

“If she --” 

“Don’t worry… told you --”

Stills looked coldly superior; Fusco looked worried and unhappy.  He seemed to be protesting something, or maybe trying to warn Stills about something.  Whatever they were talking about seemed important, to him anyway.  But Stills didn’t look worried in the slightest.  Impatient, if anything.  That was familiar too.  Reese recalled, with a trace of amusement, that patience had never been Stills’ strong suit.  Reese vastly preferred action himself; but unlike Jerry, he’d learned to wait when he needed to.

 _I could always outwait Stills_.

He’d do it one last time – until he figured out where and when he could finally execute him.  

Meanwhile, Reese had the luxury of observing his former partner now, without his knowledge.  He knew he shouldn’t indulge himself like this.  Caution dictated a hasty retreat instead.  But he’d never liked retreating either, even for his own safety.  Especially not when his initial recon was going so well.  He’d looked over his enemies’ stronghold without anyone becoming suspicious.  He’d surveilled Fusco a bit without being noticed too, and even discovered another old enemy he’d never expected to find here.  His mission had already succeeded in ways he’d never dreamed possible.  But he hadn’t fulfilled his primary objective yet.  He still had to find the Hirschfeld file, and  watch Stills a bit more.  Try to figure out what he and Fusco were up to.  Fine tune his plan. 

He tried to figure the situation out as he rifled through police files.  Stills shifted as he watched, putting a hand on his hip.  The little gesture revealed a gold shield he wore pinned to his belt. 

Shit, Reese thought, his dismay deepening as he started to fill in the blanks.  So -- Stills was a cop after all.  Maybe a Detective himself.  Or maybe he was even a bit higher up in the hierarchy at this station than Fusco.  Was Stills his superior, and was Fusco maybe protesting some assignment Stills had given him that he didn’t like?  But if that were the case, why were they talking in such low voices?  It seemed more like they were conspiring about something, like they had a guilty secret of some kind.  That would sure be in character for Stills.  Finch had told him that the cops here shook down local businessmen for protection money, and Fusco was involved in that.  Was Jerry in on it too?

Despite his intense curiosity, Reese stayed out of their sight while he watched them.  He set aside his frustration at not being able to stay there longer, or get close enough to overhear their conversation better.  Priorities, he reminded himself wryly.  This mission wasn’t really about Fusco; he was just Reese’s little side project.  He’d already learned something important about the detective anyway.  Fusco was clearly closely involved with Stills, who seemed like he might be either a fellow Detective or Fusco’s superior.  Though Reese wasn’t sure what Jerry's position was yet, exactly how they were involved or what it meant, if he knew Jerry, and he sure as hell did, he was probably as corrupt as Fusco -- if not worse.  The idea that they might be working together on some dark scheme nagged at him.  He longed to forget the Hirschfeld file for the moment, and just tail the two men.  Find out what the fuck they were up to, and screw it up somehow. 

But solving the mystery of the true nature of Fusco’s connection to Stills would have to wait a bit.  Harold was waiting for him, and the information he’d sent him there to get.  So Reese shoved the idea aside, like he had his urge to kill Stills, though it wasn’t easy.  But discipline and his loyalty to Finch prevailed.  Spying on Fusco while he looked for Hirschfeld’s file had been Reese’s idea, a way to gather more intel so he could figure out how to force the detective to assist them.  It wasn’t urgent, or his primary objective.   

Stills and Fusco were still talking, but Reese didn’t know for how long.  Why can’t I find the damn file? he thought, impatient as he rifled through others.  Do I need to look in another cabinet?  He backed up a bit, looked down at the cabinet drawers again and rolled his eyes.  Distracted by his shock and rage at finding Stills here, he’d made a mistake and somehow opened the wrong drawer in the filing cabinet.  E-F, instead of G-H.  Idiot! he scolded himself silently.  Pulling open the correct drawer this time, he rifled through the files inside it and soon hit pay dirt.  A file marked “Hirschfeld, Samuel” sat near the back.

It wasn’t a very fat file – there wasn’t much in it.  Finch had told him there hadn’t been any witnesses to the murder, so that might account for it.  But there should’ve been some evidence, at least.  Or maybe the cops hadn’t bothered to investigate his murder properly, as he and Finch suspected.  Still, Reese grabbed the file folder with a surge of satisfaction.  Mission accomplished. 

He knew he should get going, but he could still hear Stills talking to Fusco, and he was too curious not to sneak a quick peek at the file first.  Opening it, he scanned it hastily for the investigating officer’s name.  His interest intensified when he saw “L. Fusco” scrawled across the bottom of the first report on the murder.  So the murder was Fusco’s case.  The plot thickens, he mused.

Fusco looked shrewd, but Reese knew that looks could deceive.  Finch had felt he was competent, but Reese wasn’t sure yet.  Sure, the police couldn’t solve every case, but it seemed like they hadn’t given Hirschfeld’s much of a try.  Had Fusco either fucked up the investigation, or just not bothered to do a good, thorough job on it?   Or could the scanty file be a sign of something worse than mere incompetence?  Had Fusco not investigated Hirschfeld’s murder at all, because Wulff was one of the people making payments to the local cops for protection?  Maybe he’d failed to investigate because the cops already knew Wulff had murdered Hirschfeld, and why -- because he was a Jew.  Were they protecting Wulff because he was a paying client and Hirschfeld wasn’t?  Or were the cops anti-Semitic as well?  Maybe they didn’t know who the killer was, but still hadn’t investigated properly because they just didn’t give a rat’s ass about the victim. 

There were a lot of possible reasons why the file was small and the case remained unsolved.  Reese didn’t have time to figure out which one might be the most likely theory now, though.  He’d hash that out with Finch when he got back to their safe house.  His next step was to photograph the file, then return it. 

He drifted to the edge of the filing cabinet again for a few seconds, to make sure Fusco hadn’t seen him remove Hirschfeld’s file.  But Fusco seemed oblivious, his attention focused entirely on Stills.  He’d fallen silent and was looking up at Jerry, his mouth set in a crooked, unhappy line, as if he had more to say, but he knew Stills wouldn’t listen.  Stills had raised an eyebrow and was glaring at him.  From the look of things, they’d disagreed and it seemed their little talk would soon be over.  With his mission objective in hand now, Reese knew he should get out. 

Now that he knew Stills was here though, he just couldn’t turn tail and run.  He slid back behind the cabinet again and quickly tucked the file under his jacket, then zipped it up again as he shut the cabinet drawer and coolly thought things through.  Staying away from those two, or at least out of their sight, was still critical.  If Fusco got suspicious of him for any reason and asked for his badge or I.D., he’d find out that Reese wasn’t Sgt. Gonzalez.  Worse, Jerry already knew who and what he really was:  a former SAS operative.  If Stills spotted him here in a stolen cop’s uniform with a police file in his possession, Reese could wind up dead really fast.  He saw Stills as a threat – Jerry would see him the same way, and Reese already knew how his former partner dealt with threats.  He should take Samuel’s file back down the hall, duck into the bathroom he’d passed on the way in here, photograph the contents with the tiny spy camera he’d brought with him, replace the file and get the hell out of there.

That was what a smart, well-trained, experienced spy would do.  Reese was all those things, yet part of him still resisted.  The rage he’d only tamped down with an effort still lingered, threatening to overpower all his instincts and training.  Beneath the cooler thoughts of the trained agent, the hunter in him lurked, subdued by his will but still angry, wanting nothing more than to kill his betrayer.  The soldier in him knew, too, that execution was the age-old military response to aiding the enemy, committing treason and deserting, like Stills had done.  And the husband who’d lost his beloved wife, then been denied the chance even to attend her funeral, snarled down deep inside of him as well.  The darker half of Reese knew that despite the danger inherent in running into Stills in the middle of a foreign police station, it had also given him a golden opportunity for revenge. 

If he handled this right, he could turn the tables on Stills, make him his prey this time…  Give him the end he deserved, and force Fusco to work for him and Finch at the same time.  The tempting possibility made him hesitate.  If he just photographed the file and left, like a good little spy, he might save his own ass, but then be unable to implement his clever plan.  He could lose Stills and his best chance to manipulate Fusco, forever.

 _No.  I’m going to take care of Stills, once and for all_.

He’d finish his mission first, photograph the information Finch wanted, then start a little operation of his own.  He’d watch Stills, follow him – learn a bit more about his new life here and what his old partner was up to.  Hopefully along the way, he’d find a quiet place where he could serve justice by executing him.  It wouldn’t do to be sloppy or hasty about it, though.  For Finch’s sake, he’d be careful.  If it took him extra time, so be it.  Stills’ victims had already waited years to see him sent to Hell, after all.  Reese was perfectly willing to oblige them by carrying out the task himself, and ensnaring Fusco in the process; but the dead would just have to wait a little longer for Stills’ demise.

He carried Hirschfeld’s file out past the desks and back down the hall the way he’d come in, heading for the men’s room.  He’d photograph the file, and then if no one else was in there with him, he’d risk a short call to Finch on his watch radio.  It was time to check in, though he hadn’t decided if he was going to tell Finch that he’d run into Stills yet. 

No.  I won’t tell him now, he thought.  Not yet.  I’ll tell him later, after it’s done. 

He knew Harold would be upset when he found out that he’d executed the traitor like he meant to do, though even that wouldn’t stop him… 

After he’d called Finch, he’d return Hirschfeld’s file, then trail Stills and Fusco for a while, and find out just what the hell that dirty cop and his snake of a former partner were up to.

Nothing good, he was sure.

**************************************************************************************************

Finch woke slowly that morning.  First he thought sleepily that he was warm and comfortable and disinclined to move.  Then he sniffed, and sniffed again.  Something…something smelled wonderful –

Ahh, my favorite green tea!  Nathan always liked Earl Grey, but I prefer Matcha…

For a moment, he felt both happy and sad all at once.  Remembering Nate always made him feel that way…  Then his stomach growled at the enticing scent, and he let his sadness slip away.  Time to face the day. 

He finally opened his eyes a bit, stretching cautiously.  His injured hip often pained him terribly, first thing in the morning.  This time it wasn’t so bad.  More like a bearable ache than the agony he sometimes felt.  He rubbed it a bit, then spied the cup of tea he’d smelled steaming gently on his nightstand, partly covered.  A scone sat on the saucer beside it. 

 _Reese_ , he thought fondly, and the thought was love, comfort, home, friendship and desire, all rolled up into one.  _He’s always leaving me tea when he goes out into the field, even though he often leaves before dawn.  And I’ll bet that scone is delicious._

He wondered how Reese had managed to find such a typically English delicacy in Buenos Aires.  The baked goods he often left for him were always tasty, so tempting he couldn’t resist.  The man was a marvel in so many ways.  He’d begun to discover that living with Reese was a bit like owning Aladdin’s famous lamp, and having his own personal genie.  Generous, thoughtful gifts for him just appeared, silently and seemingly by magic, all over the house.  One morning his favorite tea took up residence in their kitchen cupboards.  Then pastries showed up for his breakfasts.  Soon after, fine English cheeses and wines popped up in their refrigerator.  Sometimes rare old books or record albums he wanted just materialized, placed carefully on tables in the library or even in his room, right where he was bound to find them.  Recently, he’d discovered an exquisite new maroon silk tie with lovely yellow accents gleaming enticingly at him from a bedside table when he woke.  It matched one of his vests perfectly.  Reese must’ve slipped in and left it there while he was sleeping.  He’d never heard a thing, which didn’t surprise him.  Though Reese was a big man, he still moved like a cat, silent and graceful on his feet. 

And like a cat, Harold thought fondly, he seems to enjoy leaving gifts for the person who feeds him. 

Clearly Reese spent at least some of his time, while he was ostensibly away hunting Nazis, shopping for gifts for his partner instead.  Harold had never imagined that his grim, laconic Hellhound would do such a thing, and he was touched.  Whenever he tried to thank him for it, however, Reese would just quirk a small, fond smile at him, or wink and walk away, as if his kindness was a small thing, not worth mentioning.

Harold felt differently.  He knew just how very rare and precious it was.  After Nate’s death, no one had ever done such generous things for him.  He wished he had the right words to tell Reese just how much it all meant to him.  He’d tried to compose a little speech in return, that would be as bright and thoughtful as Reese's gifts were.  But his years in England had magnified his natural shyness and reticence.  He wasn’t good at expressing affection, verbally or otherwise; Nate had often teased him about it.  And Reese's normally blank, cool expression made it harder.  It had been easier to thank him, Harold often thought, back when he’d been Sergeant Mars.  Reese always seemed to slip away, in any case, before he could say much more than “Thank you.” 

Perhaps the words didn’t matter that much to Reese, who was now a man of few words himself.  But Harold felt he needed to express his gratitude, because Reese deserved it.  He deserved far better, really, than Harold’s fumbling attempts at thanks.  He was learning to read John Reese better, and despite his silence on the subject, the gifts were clearly signs of his affection.  Harold wanted to acknowledge that, as he’d longed for it and valued it far more than any material gift his partner could bestow.

But he appreciated those as well.  Reese had excellent taste, for one thing.  His gifts were not always expensive, but they were somehow always exactly to Harold’s taste.  Though how his partner guessed, repeatedly and accurately, just what would delight him was a mystery.  Reese never came out and asked him what he wanted, or even hinted around the subject.  Yet somehow he always seemed to know.  Harold put it down to his Hellhound’s extraordinary powers of observation and perception. 

He smiled to himself, thinking about it.  Surely espionage skills had never been put to such a sweet use before.  Large and small, Reese’s gifts were all wonderful, and Harold cherished every one.  Sipping his favorite tea while he nibbled the latest, which was apple flavored and scrumptious indeed, he wondered wistfully if their relationship was a little like a good marriage.  At least in the sense that they took care of each other, although they did it in different ways.  His gifts tended toward large practicalities like providing meals, clothing and shelter.  Reese’s were usually smaller in scale, but more imaginative.  They fed his mind and soul.

Better still, they told him things that Reese would probably never say.  He _was_ loved; Harold was certain of that.  If it wasn’t quite in the way he wanted, he wasn’t fool enough not to recognize and appreciate it, all the same.  He was very glad that Reese wasn’t so angry anymore, either with him or seemingly with life itself.  He was also grateful that his Hellhound now trusted him again.  They no longer fought about things, but collaborated and often exchanged ideas about their work.  They didn’t always agree, and Harold felt that Reese still had an annoying tendency to take too many risks, but that was who he was -- who he’d always been. 

Finch often recalled reading that Sgt. Mars had saved the lives of many of the men in his company during the war, by jumping onto the side of a Panzer tank during a battle, prying open the tank’s porthole and killing the gunner inside, though he’d been badly wounded by both bullets and shrapnel in the process.  An incredible act of courage and selflessness, which awed him every time he thought of it.  And he would never forget how quickly and boldly Reese had acted that terrible day when they’d been attacked near Bletchley.  Outnumbered, ambushed and bleeding, Reese had still coolly turned the tables on an entire team of German assassins, and saved both their lives.  John Reese was extraordinarily brave, a man who would always run toward a fight, not away from it.  Since his courage and boldness were invaluable in Finch’s mission, he had to live with the mixture of admiration and fear those qualities produced in him:  the terror that he might lose John.  They’d still become a highly effective team, and Finch had no doubt that they would soon capture their first target.  

In the meantime, knowing Reese cared for him meant more than all his wealth and achievements put together.  Sometimes he wondered secretly if it meant even more than his mission to bring monsters to justice.  Sometimes he thought it did, though of course he could never tell Reese that.

Reese had partially covered his teacup, so it wouldn’t grow cold if he slept in.  As he reached for the tea, Harold’s smile turned very fond indeed.  For a tall, broad-shouldered, incredibly strong, implacable killing machine, his Hellhound was really remarkably sweet and thoughtful.

_Not just this tea, but all the kindness he’s shown me lately – it’s like something John Mars would’ve done._

As he sipped his tea, Harold sat thinking about that for a while.  The insight was bittersweet at first.  He often felt that he’d lost the bright-eyed, smiling young soldier he’d fallen for, when Sgt. Mars had returned to North Africa.  He couldn’t help but remember the night in his parlor in England years ago, when Mars had shown him such kindness and understanding when he’d wept over losing Nathan.  He’d liked John Mars from the first, but he sometimes wondered if that was the moment he’d fallen in love with him. 

Or maybe I loved him at first sight, Harold mused, when he saved me from falling on the stone steps at Bletchley, the day we met.  He was so handsome, so full of life and mischief back then, with sparkling blue eyes and a dazzling smile…  He sighed wistfully to himself, remembering it.  He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

He still is, he corrected himself, with a twinge of guilt.

He loved Reese still; he always would.  But his love had been tinged by sadness when they’d reunited.  Ever since he’d found Reese in Manhattan, he’d paradoxically mourned Sgt. Mars, thinking he’d never see that kind young man again.  He’d secretly felt as if John Mars had gone off to war a second time and died there, since the man he’d found in New York bore more than just a different name.  He’d worn a stranger’s face as well.  Gaunt, grim, a drunkard with prematurely greying long hair, a ragged beard and dirty, tattered old clothes – John Mars had changed so much, Harold had hardly recognized him.  It had shocked him that during their long-awaited reunion, he’d recognized his former friend more from the shape of his hands and his wedding ring at first, than by his features. 

When he’d finally gotten close enough to look into John’s blue eyes, it seemed an angry stranger had stared back at him.  Haunted by grief and guilt and seemingly fueled solely by rage and pain, the drunk who now called himself Reese had been so shockingly different from the handsome, cocky young soldier that Harold had loved, he’d seemed a different person entirely.  John Mars had been happy, friendly and kind, with a large repertoire of smiles.  But when he’d first found him after the war, Reese never smiled, and he’d been so broken, distant, paranoid and angry that Finch had initially wondered if they could even find any common ground at all. 

He had, of course, been proved wrong about that.  Asking Reese to hunt Nazis with him had given them a shared purpose, and helped bind them together from the start.  He’d intended to help Reese get sober again too, but his friend had surprised him and managed that almost immediately and entirely alone, through a no doubt agonizing process of withdrawal that Harold still didn’t like to imagine.  Looking back on it though, disturbing as it had been to realize what the ex-soldier must’ve gone through, that had also been his first sign that despite his seemingly shattered state, Reese was still the right man to help him with his dangerous mission.  Regaining sobriety the way he had, in just a few days and without any help from anyone, had required both courage and iron will, two traits his operative would need to be successful.  Finding that Reese still possessed those qualities had reassured him that his old friend would be up to the difficult task they faced.  And Reese had proven to be a superb operative:  bold, highly intelligent and amazingly resourceful.  Finch had no complaints whatsoever about his Hellhound’s skills or performance.  Reese had exceeded even his high expectations.

He just – wasn’t Sgt. Mars anymore, and Finch had secretly missed his sunny young friend terribly.

But in that moment of quiet contemplation, Finch realized he’d been doing John Reese a disservice.  By longing for the past, perhaps he still hadn’t fully appreciated the present.  He’d been selfish to miss who his friend had been, when the man he’d become, the man he still loved, was right beside him, closer than he’d ever been before.  Perhaps he’d also been wrong to assume that in a way, John Mars had died, and he’d lost him forever.  Clearly he still lived.  He’d just taken a while to begin to show himself again, after all the terrible things that had happened to Reese.  But that was understandable.  What he’d been through would’ve killed most men, many times over.  If Mars hadn’t been as strong as he was, as tough and resilient, he’d never have survived long enough for Harold to find him again at all.

Instead of longing impossibly for the return of John’s innocence, Harold reflected, perhaps he needed to spend more time appreciating the sadder but wiser man he’d become.  The fact that Mars’ essential goodness had survived all the tragedy and horrors he’d been through, that John Reese had learned to smile again, that he saved his biggest, most genuine smiles for Harold and treated him with kindness and generosity…  The fact that a man so fierce and deadly _could_ still love, and that he’d chosen to show Harold that he was dear to him -- well.  Those were definitely things to celebrate.  Every little joke Reese told, every smile he gave him when they were alone, indeed every moment that he relaxed in Harold's company, was a sign of John Mars’ survival; and a sign that John still trusted him, though he trusted no one else.   All that was more precious to him than even the gifts Reese brought home for him.

John Mars didn’t die in Africa after all, Harold thought with quiet gratitude.  I was wrong about that.  It just took me a while to recognize him again.  Now I see him, even if he doesn’t say much and chooses to call himself Mr. Reese.  And I will still love him no matter what he calls himself, and if he never buys me another thing…

But as he made his tasty scone disappear, he thought of how Reese himself never ate before he left on his missions, and felt guilty for enjoying his own breakfast while his best friend went hungry.  Often, his Hellhound wouldn’t eat for many hours after he left their safe house, either.  If he was surveilling a target and there was little danger of violent action, sometimes he’d risk a light snack – coffee or a biscuit.  But never anything more.  Reese had explained his reasons for it, and they were sound, but Finch still didn’t like the fact that his partner often had to starve himself while he was working.  He never would.  It was just one of the aspects of their joint mission that he’d reluctantly learned to live with. 

He tried to make up for it by making sure that whenever Reese finally made it home, he had nutritious, satisfying meals waiting for him, no matter the hour.  If he came back really late, in the wee hours of the morning when Harold was asleep, the meals were covered and available in their refrigerator; and Harold always checked to make sure Reese had eaten one the next morning.  Reese would either tease him about it, or roll his eyes and mutter dark things about “mother hens”, depending on his mood. 

But Harold didn’t care.  He felt obliged to watch Reese's eating habits as, left to himself, he still tended to neglect meals on occasion; and a man his size, in his dangerous line of work, needed to eat regularly.  He would never forget the way John had looked when he’d found him in New York – shivering in thin, ragged old clothes, half drunk and positively gaunt from lack of food.  His cheekbones had looked like they were about to poke through his skin.  Harold was sure that if Reese had been shirtless that day, he could’ve counted every one of his ribs, as well.  John’s body had worn as thin as his ravaged spirit.  Seeing the big, healthy soldier he’d loved reduced to such a shadow of his former self had both shocked and hurt Harold.  He’d sworn to himself back then that Reese would never want for anything ever again, if he had any say in the matter.  Now that he did, since he couldn’t prevent his partner from going hungry when he was working, he could at least make sure that Reese would never suffer from that when he was at home.

To make sure of it, Finch had hired a local cook, a young woman named Sofia Menina, to prepare their meals.  He and Reese could heat and serve them, and John could cook eggs.  But that was the extent of their culinary skills.  Reese’s wife had always cooked for him, and Harold knew next to nothing about cooking either.  His mother had made all their meals when he was a boy, and once he’d gone away to school, he’d hired others to do it for him.  He’d taken his British cook to France with him when he’d retired, and would’ve taken her to South America too, if he could.  But the covert nature of their work had made that impossible.  So he’d sadly left her behind on his estate in the Loire valley, and begun looking for a new cook before they’d even moved into their safe house.

It was Reese who’d found one, though.  Finch had begun interviewing suitable candidates, when Reese had apparently mentioned to his young friend Innosanto that he and a friend needed a cook.  Morales had recommended Sofia to him.  Apparently she’d all but adopted Innosanto when his parents died, taking work as a cook and seamstress to keep them both fed, as she too was an orphan.  Innosanto had sworn that Señorita Menina was both trustworthy and “amazing with a frying pan.”  After tasting her cooking, which was wonderful, Finch had agreed to hire her for a month, to see if the arrangement suited.  He’d set up a schedule where Sofia came in once every two weeks with enough food for him and Reese for the next two.  Sofia performed admirably, cooking mouth-watering, hearty meals and staying well within the budget Finch had set for her.  So he’d retained her services for as long as they remained in Buenos Aires. 

When Reese had grimly taken him to see the hovel she and Innosanto had both been living in, however, Finch had been horrified.  Their neighborhood was old, run down, dirty and dangerous, with pimps and prostitutes doing business in plain sight out on the streets.  Their apartment building was filthy and cold, filled with broken radiators and coughing tenants.  He soon saw why many of the tenants seemed ill.  Their rooms were tiny and dreary, and since most of the windows in the building were broken, the residents had been forced to patch them (rather ineffectually) with newspapers which didn’t keep out the cold.  The stairways were rotting and precarious, and to Harold's disgust, infested with rats as well.  If Reese hadn’t accompanied him there, Harold would’ve felt threatened by the neighborhood himself.  He couldn’t stand the thought of his sweet young cook or Reese’s young friend living in such a squalid, horrible place.  He’d insisted that they move right away. 

That very morning, he’d had the two youngsters gather their scant possessions, while Reese put them into their trunk.  They had little more than clothes and a few pots and pans.  Then Reese had driven them to a much better area that he’d found while learning his way around Buenos Aires.  After a brief visit to a likely apartment there, and an equally brief discussion with an eager apartment manager, Finch had rented a newer, larger furnished apartment for Sofia and Innosanto.  It was clean and painted a bright white, with unbroken windows, no vermin and even a view of a nicely treed park from its bedroom windows.  It was also in a nice neighborhood filled with young, middle-class families, instead of hustlers and prostitutes. 

When she first saw their clean, new, comparatively spacious living quarters Sofia’s eyes had overflowed.  “Oh, Señor Falcones!  Muchas gracias!” 

Before Harold could say more than, “It’s quite all right,” she’d taken his hand and kissed it, thanking him profusely.  Innosanto had then raised his embarrassment to excruciating levels by hugging him impulsively, and adding his equally fervent thanks.  “Gracias, Señor Falcones!  No one has ever done such a thing for me before!  God bless you, Señor!”

“But… it’s just an empty apartment!  Well, I mean it’s furnished but… we haven’t even put your things in it yet!” Finch had spluttered, so embarrassed he’d been blushing.

“It is beautiful.  Like heaven, compared to what we had,” Sofia protested.  “Oh, Senor!” she whispered, and then she started to cry.  Innosanto’s eyes had watered suspiciously too.

“Don’t do that,” Harold had murmured, feeling something approaching panic as the two children clung to him while they praised him to the skies and wept.  “Please don’t!”  He’d turned to Reese, desperate for help.

But Reese, damn him, hadn’t given it.  He’d stood by watching the whole thing with his usual apparent impassivity, hands clasped in front of him, stoic expression solidly in place.  The perfect operative, he hadn’t moved or said a word while the two teens clung to Harold, crying and babbling gratefully.  But when Finch looked to him for rescue, he’d seen faint but damning evidence that Reese found the whole thing hilarious.  Just for a second, when their eyes met, his lips had quirked upward in the tiniest of smirks, so small that no one else would’ve noticed it.  But Harold saw it, and the way his Hellhound’s normally icy blue eyes danced too.  That tiny smirk fairly shrieked Reese’s amusement at all the sentiment on display, and his flustered response to it.  He’d glared at his operative, practically daring him to make a joke about it.  With his usual acuity, Reese had read his silent warning loud and clear.  He’d just blinked mildly at him, doing his best to radiate innocence, and wisely remained silent.  Still…  If the youngsters’ gratitude hadn’t been so genuine, he’d’ve suspected Reese of staging the entire scene for his own amusement.

I’m still not entirely certain he didn’t, Harold thought, smiling in spite of himself.  One of the things he’d discovered about his Hellhound was that beneath his cool, fierce façade lurked a sneaky, very active sense of humor.  Reese amused himself in various ways, but one of his favorite methods seemed to be by teasing him.  And most of the time, though he’d never admit to it, Harold secretly enjoyed it.  The more so because he remembered Sgt. Mars taking a boyish delight in the very same thing.

He had to admit, though, that his partner had surprised him by more or less adopting the two young people.  Reese had never mentioned it to Finch, but Sofia had confided to him that he sometimes dropped by their new apartment unexpectedly.  He always said he was there to sample her cooking, but she’d noticed that he usually left without eating much of it.  Sofia had said with a shy smile that she felt Mr. Rivera was “really checking up on Innosanto and me.  Making sure we’re all right, and that no one is bothering us.”  Finch wondered if she was nursing a little crush on her tall, dark and handsome rescuer.  He could hardly blame her, as he’d had one himself for years.  He was also sure she was correct in her assessment of Reese’s real motive for his visits.  He’d had firsthand experience with his friend’s fierce protectiveness. 

It just surprised me when he extended it to those children, when he’s never seemed sentimental about children before, Finch mused.  Then again, maybe he’s never said much about them because his wife died young, before they could have any, and not because he didn’t want them…

Despite his discomfort at the start, the new living arrangements for the two youngsters had turned out well.  Sofia and Innosanto were living happily in their new apartment, and Sofia did all their cooking there.  Harold paid their rent gladly, through a shell corporation he’d set up as a charity for young orphans.  It was a paltry sum to him, and he was more than glad to pay it, as it helped keep both of the young people safe.  The arrangement also spared him both the noise and odors involved in Sofia’s cooking, and it kept her out of their safe house as much as possible.  Though Sofia had proved sensible, loyal and a wonderful cook, she was also very young.  And given the dangers involved in Nazi hunting, Finch felt that the less she knew about them or spent time in their house, the better it would be for everyone concerned.

As Harold sipped his tea, wondering what Sofia had left them for lunch today, he checked his watch.  Good heavens, he’d really slept in!  It was almost 8:00 a.m. already.  If things had gone according to plan, Reese was due to check in with him soon.  He felt an all-too-familiar tightening in his gut as he waited.  He could never really relax when Reese was out in the field.  Though he was a wonderful operative, strong, skilled and resourceful, he was still mortal; and their quarry were monsters.  Ex-soldiers who were armed, highly experienced killers.  There was always the chance that something could go wrong on his dangerous covert missions.  He could be hurt or even –

Finch took a deep breath and blew it out again.  He knew where Reese had gone, as they always tried to discuss that before he left on missions.  But knowing that his Hellhound meant to infiltrate a police station this morning certainly didn’t help to calm him any. 

He’ll call, he told himself anxiously as he sipped some more tea.  He’ll call soon, and everything will be all right…

****************************************************************************************************

In a dusty men’s room in Buenos Aires' Estacion de Policia #9, Reese raised his watch quietly to his mouth.  He was alone in a stall, but that could change at any moment.  It wouldn’t do for some cop to come in and find him seemingly talking loudly to himself in there.  That would attract attention he didn’t want.  So he kept his voice low and soft as he activated his wrist radio.  “Señor Falcones?  Are you there?”

“Always, Señor Rivera,” was Harold’s soft reply. 

Finch answered so quickly, Reese knew he must’ve been worried and awaiting his transmission.  It made him doubly glad he’d paused to check in.  He smiled, happy as always to hear Harold’s voice while he was out in the field.  “I’m in,” he said briefly, knowing Harold would understand that meant he’d made it into Fusco’s station.  “The papers are interesting today.  I’ll bring you one when I get back.”  Translation:  he’d photographed the file Finch wanted.

“Excellent!  Your talents, as always, are much appreciated.”  Despite his oblique phrasing, Harold had grasped his meaning instantly.  Reese loved the sharpness of Finch’s mind and how it made communication between them easier, both covert and otherwise.  He knew he’d become taciturn when he was homeless, and he couldn’t seem to break the habit.  But no matter how little he said, he almost never had to spell anything out to Harold.  That kind of easy, implicit understanding with a handler was new to him and he loved it.  Their teamwork and partnership just kept getting better and better these days.  Also, Harold sounded really pleased with him.  Reese’s grin grew even wider.  For once, it was nice to have a conversation with Harold where he didn’t have to guard his expression.

“Thanks.  Oh, and I found an old friend today.  I’ll tell you about him later.”

The words somehow came out before Reese could stop them.  A long pause followed them and within that awkward silence, his grin vanished and he mentally cursed himself soundly.  _Shit!_   He hadn’t meant to tell Finch that yet.  He knew Harold’s brilliant brain would seize on that tiny bit of information and leap to various conclusions from it.  Harold would now wonder if his “old friend” was a friend or a foe, how he’d found him, and what he’d decide to do about it if he were an enemy.

 _I’m always so careful not to let my emotions show on my face.  This time, I should’ve guarded my goddamn tongue instead_ , he thought.

He set his jaw so hard it creaked.  Bloody hell!  Now Finch was going to worry even more than he usually did about him; and whether or not he managed to deal with Stills before he went home, he knew he was going to face a grilling about the identity of his ‘old friend’ when he got there.  He’d meant to tell Finch about Jerry after it was all over, not before.

 _Get a fucking grip!_ He told himself angrily.  _Keep your damn mouth shut!_   But it was too late.

How had those words slipped out?  He wasn’t some green recruit.  He knew how to keep secrets.  _Ordinarily_.  For a few cold seconds, he wondered if Harold’s praise had something to do with it.  Had he let a compliment go to his head, set him bragging about what else he’d done? 

 _Shit_.  He was afraid it might be true.  Long ago, he used to play at bragging about things sometimes with Jess, just to hear her tease him in return.  And he had let his guard down for a moment there.  Since Harold couldn’t see him, he’d grinned openly out of pure affection.  Had he fallen, just for the space of those few unguarded seconds, into an affectionate old habit with his new love?  He did adore teasing Finch.  Or had that little revelation been motivated by his ego?  Or had he been flirting, trying to make himself seem more interesting so that Harold would be thinking more about him while he was gone?

 _Maybe_.  _Jesus_.  He felt a chill in his gut, an uneasy roil of anger, fear and disgust at himself.  That stupid verbal slip might’ve been his ego talking.  He’d never made mistakes like that in North Africa.  But it wasn’t the first time he’d screwed up like that with Finch, and said things he shouldn’t.  Even though he knew better and had warned himself a thousand times not to, it was like some reckless, hungry part of him couldn’t help but flirt with Finch sometimes, even when he was out in the field.

Am I really that desperate, that pathetic? he asked himself, but he already knew the answer.

Some fucking spy you are, he growled to himself.  He’d tried to operate as if Finch was just his handler, tried to maintain a certain distance from him when he was at work.  Mostly he’d succeeded, but every once in a while, he failed miserably at it – like just now.  The truth was, he was in love with his partner and handler, and as a spy, he’d never operated under those conditions before.  To say that it complicated things would be the understatement of the year.  He’d been a better operative in North Africa, where his only emotional ties had been slight bonds of comradery with Stills and casual friendships with some members of the Resistance.  His ties to Finch went miles deeper, and it made keeping secrets and watching his mouth (when he was talking to Harold anyway) harder for him. 

He wished it wasn’t true, but he knew he desperately wanted to matter to Harold.  He was the only person on earth whose opinion of him counted anymore; but it mattered more to Reese than anything.  There was also something about Harold that made it hard to lie to him, even by omission.  Something about his big blue eyes and sharply perceptive gaze…and the way those blue eyes often gentled when they looked at him.  He’d never really been able to figure out why that got to him, but it did.  Harold could be hard when he had to, but his nature was gentle and kind, like his wife's had been.  In private, he was unfailing good to Reese and his sweetness tugged at Reese’s heart, affected him like Jessica once had.  That quality in Finch had drawn him irresistibly, from the time they’d first met.  Even when they’d just been friends back in England, Reese had been very fond of his genius scientist, and felt immensely protective of him.  Now he loved him so much, he couldn’t imagine living without him.  The truly terrifying thing was, Finch did all that to him without even trying, without even knowing how much power he had over him.  He shuddered to think what Harold might pry out of him, if he ever guessed that Reese was desperately in love with him.

Reese bit his lip, fuming at his mistake.  Whatever his motive for it had been, he really wished he’d kept his mouth shut about Jerry.  For one thing, Harold worried enough about him already.  He shouldn’t have added to that burden.  For another, he’d created trouble for himself as well.  Facing Harold’s questions when he got back wouldn’t be the worst of it.  No, what he feared most was his judgement.

Still, I’m not going to lie to him.  After he executed Jerry, he’d tell Finch what he’d done.  Not the gory details, but the gist of it.  He’d decided already that he would never lie to Harold about his own failings or misdeeds, and that he’d take whatever punishment Finch chose to give him in connection with them.  No matter what Harold decided to do to him after he killed Stills, he’d try to accept it; even if Harold hated him afterwards and wanted him to leave.

Though maybe I can talk him into letting me stay long enough to get him better protected before I go, he thought sadly.  Maybe I can get him a dog.  Something big, powerful and loyal with really sharp teeth, who’ll protect him when I’m gone.  I’ve been meaning to do that anyway…

Another terrible pain lanced through him, at the thought of actually getting in a car and driving away from Harold.  But he felt sure that’s what he was going to have to do after he killed Stills.  When he’d confessed to almost murdering Mrs. Eichmann, he’d been afraid their friendship would end right then and there.  Harold would send him away, despise him for his black, vengeful heart, which was so unlike Harold's own, far more generous one.  Reese thought of himself that way at times:  like a dark storm barely contained by his own skin, thunder and lightning roiling beneath it.  But he’d kept to his vow of honesty anyway, and told Harold the truth.  He’d been amazed that despite his confession, Harold hadn’t gotten rid of him; but that didn’t mean he never would.  Would he be as forgiving after he killed Stills?  Was he going to lose Harold over this – lose everything that mattered to him in the world, a second time?  And what would happen to Harold, if he got sent away?  The fear in his gut grew deeper and colder.

_I lost Jess doing my duty.  Am I going to lose Harold for the same reason?  Because I’m a fucking soldier to the bone, because I always choose duty over the people I Iove?  Fuck!_

For an instant, Reese wavered.  It was odd, after all the suffering, death and horrors he’d seen and the terrible things he’d done, that fear could still touch him.  But this, oh this was his Achilles heel, his black, secret terror:  the thought of losing Harold, or leaving him unguarded, made him sick with fear.  _I could keep him, and let Stills go_ , he told himself desperately. 

Then he shook his head slowly.  No, he couldn’t.  That wasn’t possible, and he knew it.  He loved Harold more than anything, but he could never let Jerry go after everything he’d done.  All the good men he’d gotten killed in his ops, the way he’d betrayed his uniform and country, and Reese too – he just couldn’t forget all of that, couldn’t walk away and pretend none of it had happened.  Especially since Jerry was a cop now, a figure of trust and authority, which meant he was in a perfect position to harm the locals.  He couldn’t ignore that either.  It wouldn’t be right, especially if he did it for purely selfish reasons, so he could stay with Harold.  Every time he saw his scars in a mirror, he’d be reminded of how he’d shirked his duty and hadn’t taken care of the traitor responsible for them and for the deaths of brave men he’d known.  He’d also have to live with the fact that he’d left a predator with a badge on the loose, in the city where Sofia and Innosanto were growing up.  He couldn’t do that either.  It would make even his love for Harold wrong, would taint it with cowardice and selfishness. 

Like it or not, he knew what he had to do.  Stills was a dead man.  It was just a question of when. 

Most of his rage was for Jerry’s other victims, the ones he’d known and the ones he might still hurt; but part of it was personal.  It sprang from the fact that he now understood better just how very much Jerry’s betrayal had cost him.  After Jessica’s death he’d been so grief-stricken, it was like a fog had clouded his mind.  For a long time afterwards, he’d had nightmares and couldn’t think straight.  He couldn’t understand why the SAS had turned against him.  Why they’d denied his request for a few days’ bereavement leave, to go back to England to visit her grave.  Or why they’d been so quick to court-martial him later.  Why they’d stripped him of his rank and cast him out so fast, when he’d try to go home anyway.  Even though he’d gone AWOL to do it, his field court martial had been a rather extreme response to a lesser offense.  Especially considering the fact that his record had been blameless until then, and he’d been a dedicated, decorated SAS Captain who’d just lost his wife, then been refused permission to even visit her grave, when it normally would’ve been granted.

But he understood the SAS’s actions better now.  They’d been harsher than usual with him because they’d really been responding to something else entirely:  their private perception of him as a traitor.  Stills had tainted him by association.  Jerry’s disappearance after Reese’s arrest by the Gestapo had been a dead giveaway that he’d turned traitor.  But it had taken Reese a long time to realize that it must’ve caused his superiors to mistrust him as well.  Or maybe they’d worried that even if he hadn’t turned traitor earlier, when Jerry had, he still might’ve broken and spilled secrets to the Germans under torture.  Either way, Jerry’s actions had destroyed his reputation with the SAS.

He hadn’t guessed it at the time, though.  After his escape, he’d contacted the SAS by radio as soon as he could.  Explained that he hadn’t talked, hadn’t told the Germans a thing, despite being tortured.  It was true, and they’d told him they believed him, but they must not have.  Why would they, when his own partner had become a traitor?  They must’ve thought that Reese might’ve been involved in Jerry’s treachery too. 

It’d taken him even longer to figure out how they’d made sense of Stills betraying him to the Gestapo.  If they were both traitors anyway, like the SAS must’ve thought, why would Stills do that?  Maybe they’d thought both he and Jerry had been selling secrets to the Germans, and that Stills had only turned him in to the Gestapo after they’d had some sort of fight.  Or maybe they’d suspected that Reese’s arrest and eventual escape were just for show, that he hadn’t really been tortured at all and the Germans had just held him briefly, then sent him back to the SAS to spy on them as a double agent.  Things like that had happened during the war.  Reese knew from his experience with Jerry, just how difficult it could be to determine loyalties in wartime.  But he also thought the SAS could’ve tried harder with him.

If my service record wasn’t enough, they should’ve taken a look at my back and my arm.  Maybe all those scars would’ve convinced them I really was tortured, he thought wryly.  But the only superior officer I ever saw before my court martial was that ass, Dozer.  He sure as hell wasn’t interested, and the officers at my court martial weren’t either.  No one ever asked me anything about it, because they’d already made up their minds that I was a traitor. 

Then again, it wouldn’t have made much difference if they had, as his only goal at the time had been staying silent so they’d get his trial over with faster, and he could return to England to see his wife’s grave.  That had been the only thing he wanted, and he’d clung to it and shut everything else out.  Looking back on it, he’d been unhinged by grief at the time, and not thinking straight at all.

Later though, when he’d been homeless and wandering about New York, despite his drinking, his mind slowly cleared a bit.  Enough that he’d started to wonder if everything that’d happened to him had been all his fault.  The past had taken him over back then, eclipsing the present.  He’d had nothing but time, so he’d thought a lot about what had led to his downfall.  It had been particularly galling when he’d realized what’d really cost him his career, and begun his long slide into oblivion.  It wasn’t really his assignment in North Africa, the horrors there, or even Jessica’s death.  It’d started before that.  The seed of his ruin had really been his assignment as Jerry’s partner. 

The thing was, it hadn’t been his idea.  He’d actually never liked Stills all that much, but the SAS hadn’t given him any choice in the matter when they’d paired them up.  Despite that, he’d made the best of it, and been an excellent agent for them in North Africa.  He’d done things for them there that had turned his stomach, things even he had never done before, like fucking men and then assassinating them, all in the name of duty.  But they’d blamed him for his partner’s treachery anyway. 

At first, he’d blamed himself just as much -- for everything bad that’d happened to him after he’d gone to Africa the second time.  But as the war came to an end and in the first years after it, he’d slowly come to understand that Stills had had a huge hand in his fall as well.  He’d figured out that the SAS had suspected him of complicity in Jerry’s crimes, and punished him accordingly.

That painful truth had just been one more layer of agony, more misery to drape over the shrouds that already wound around him.  Reese had been a loyal soldier.  He’d given everything to the SAS, body and spirit.  Done everything they’d ever asked of him, and more.  He’d even given up the woman he loved to serve their cause – twice.  Hell, he’d lost her because of it.  He hadn’t told the Gestapo any of their secrets, either.  Not a damn bloody thing, even when they’d whipped, knifed and beaten him.  But all his loyalty and self-sacrifice hadn’t mattered.  What Stills had done changed everything.  After he’d turned traitor, his superiors hadn’t believed Reese anymore, or returned his loyalty.  They’d assumed he’d betrayed them because Stills had. 

But with Reese, they’d had no proof.  Unlike Stills, he hadn’t run away, even after being tortured.  They couldn’t be certain that he’d become a double agent.  He supposed they’d given him the benefit of the doubt, at least, by not kicking him out after he’d escaped the Gestapo.  They’d even promoted him.  But it was also possible that that was only the pretty face they’d pasted over an ugly situation.  He was one of their most successful agents; they wouldn’t have wanted to advertise the fact that he’d turned traitor, even if it was what they suspected.  Their refusal of his request to go home, and their decision to send him on an extremely hazardous mission to train partisans in Sicily instead, told the real story.  It had been their way of quietly getting rid of an operative they doubted, one who might’ve turned traitor.  They’d tried to send him into the thick of it, so he’d get killed in combat and wouldn’t be able to send reports about SAS operations back to the Germans.  When their effort at reassigning him failed and he’d tried to go back to England against orders instead, that must’ve just made him look worse in their eyes.  He must’ve seemed even more like a double agent desperate to return to England and report back to the Germans about SAS operations there.  Ironically, his desperate desire to see his young wife’s grave and say a final farewell must’ve only served to convince the upper echelons of the SAS that he’d turned traitor.  So they’d resorted to a court martial to get rid of him.

That was what his overactive sense of duty had won him before.  Nothing good, only distrust, betrayal and abandonment by those he’d trusted.  His own partner first, and then even the SAS itself.

_Because of fucking Jerry.  I have to kill him!  He deserves to die._

But if that cost him Harold…  If his devotion to duty only led him to lose everything he’d found once again… 

_Oh fuck, if it does --_

Reese felt cold all over, like all his strength had drained away at the mere thought of that.  Without Harold, he would have nothing.  No one.  No home, no purpose, no reason to live. 

He slumped, letting his head fall back until it clunked into the cold concrete wall behind him.  He welcomed the pain, hating himself more than a little.  He closed his eyes, feeling almost sick with the weight of his own sense of duty.  He’d let it go for a time in New York when he’d been drinking, but he’d taken it on again so he could help Harold hunt Nazis, and because he felt that Jessica would’ve wanted him to do that.  Yet now it might cost him his second love, the very man he’d shouldered that burden for again. 

Why?  He’d never been prone to self-pity, but the timing of this was cruel.  Why did he have to find Stills here, after all this time?  And why now?  He loved his new life with Harold so much.  Finch was healing him, in ways no one else ever could.  It wasn’t just the job or the safe house he’d provided, though his salary was far more than he needed and their home was luxurious and comfortable.  It wasn’t just the regular meals Harold made sure he ate, either, or the expensive tailored clothes he gave him or even the journal he’d encouraged him to write about the war in.  It was all of that, but it was also the way Harold treated him.  With respect and kindness, as if he were still a soldier, not a traitor; and also like he was a friend whose wishes and opinions really mattered to him. 

It was the way Harold wanted to spend time with him outside of their joint mission, too.  How he invited him out to dinner sometimes, and even to the opera.  It’d been so wonderful going there with him, and Harold had looked so handsome in his tuxedo that night.  Knowing everything Finch had done and what he still meant to do, he’d been so proud just to sit beside him, prouder still to be his friend and partner.  Harold was making the world a better place; for him, for Innosanto and Sofia, and soon for everyone in Buenos Aires, once they caught some Nazis.  And in some small way, Reese was helping him.  After wandering unhappy and alone for years, he finally had a purpose he could feel good about again; and someone to love again, too.  For the first time since Jess’s death, for a few hours at the opera with Harold, despite the screechy sopranos, he’d actually been happy.  He’d sat there silently reveling in it, in the way his heart felt lighter than it had in years.  He’d still been half drunk on the feeling when they got home.  It was why he’d finally realized he was in love, when he hadn’t even thought he was capable of that anymore.

The way he’d begun to heal, his happiness, and the fact that he’d fallen in love again – all those things were because of Harold. 

How could he give all that up now?  Especially when he’d never even touched Harold the way he longed to, had never even kissed him?

You’re never going to get to do that, mate, a cold voice whispered inside of him.  He doesn’t love you like you love him.  You’ve got to keep your hands off!

I know, Reese answered it sadly.

He could leave Harold alone, treat him as just a friend.  It was terribly hard, but he’d been doing it anyway.  He loved Harold that much.  But how could he just walk away from Stills, when he shared Harold’s sense of justice?  How could he leave him here knowing he was a cop now, in a perfect position to hurt or even kill people with impunity?  And Jerry would do just that, if he got the chance.  He probably already had.  Knowing Stills from past experience as he did, how could he let him live?  Especially when he posed a threat not just to strangers Reese didn’t know, but to two kids he cared about, and worse, to Harold himself, who was his whole world?

He couldn’t ignore all that.  That was the mission he’d taken on, after all – Harold’s mission.  To pry war criminals out of the places they’d gone to hide, and bring them to justice.  Keep them from hurting anyone else.  But Harold had wanted proof.  That was what his files were all about.  All the information it’d taken him years to gather was solid evidence that the Nazis they were hunting were guilty of war crimes.  He’d collected photos, both German and Allied war records, newspaper reports, secret reports from various intelligence agencies, even eyewitness testimonies in many cases.  Every scrap of paper he could find that held information about Nazi atrocities and who’d committed them during the war.  Harold had needed all of it to be sure, before he could move against them. 

Reese had no solid proof of what Stills had done, no written record of his base treachery.  Nor could he prove that Jerry knew of his connection to Finch, and was therefore a threat to them both.  All he had were memories, conjectures, _circumstances_.  They weren’t proof.  Yet he knew Jerry was guilty of becoming a traitor and committing war crimes all the same, because the circumstances all pointed to it so unmistakably.  No one else had been in a position to do what he’d done.  No one else had had the knowledge, the motive or the skills to commit his crimes; and what other reason could there be for the fact that despite his competence in the SAS, his missions with the Resistance in North Africa had often failed as well?  Stills was also an expert marksman, like the mysterious sniper who’d shot Reese the day the Gestapo came for him.  Then there was the damning fact that he’d fled right after it happened, deserted the SAS the very next day and never returned.  But what really cinched it, what made his guilt crystal clear was that he’d chosen Argentina as his safe haven, the place that most of Germany’s war criminals had also fled to after the war.  Why would Jerry have come here, to a foreign country far from England where he didn’t even speak the language, if not to escape justice?  After finding him here, Reese had no doubts at all.  His former partner’s hands were stained with a lot of innocent blood.  Blood that only Reese could avenge.

But Harold probably wouldn’t accept Reese’s memories and the conclusions he’d come to about them as hard proof of Stills’ guilt.  So when he executed Jerry, Harold would probably be furious.  Sickened.  Harold might call it murder and cast him out, just like the SAS once had.

Reese shut his eyes and banged his head into the wall again deliberately, over and over.  He kept doing it, not caring how much it hurt, gritting his teeth against the pain.  Why did life always have to twist him into fucking knots like this?  Demand everything he had, and then some? 

He didn’t know.  But now that he’d finally found his old partner, he couldn’t just ignore his duty to deal with him.  He also knew, with a bitter kind of certainty, that if Harold cut him loose after he killed Stills, he wouldn’t go on without him.  He couldn’t.  Losing Jess had almost killed him.  Losing Harold because of something he’d done certainly would. 

If that happens, if he sends me away, I’ll go somewhere far enough away where he won’t hear about it, and put a bullet in my head.  Should’ve done it a long time ago anyway.  I would’ve, if it weren’t for Harold --

“Fine.  But just… be careful,” Harold said quietly. 

Reese flinched.  He’d been sunk so deep in his own thoughts, in his memories and despair, he’d forgotten that Harold was still there on the other end of his radio.  Though his partner was reticent as usual, Reese could hear the strain in his voice.  It was so like him to worry, to be concerned even about a ruthless, black-hearted son of a bitch like Reese.  The fact that Finch worried about him, cared for him as a friend, touched him deeply.  In that moment, knowing he was loved like that again by someone good who knew what he truly was, pierced his heart like an arrow.  Because he could lose that amazing love, the last one he’d ever know; and once again, he would be the one to blame.

Jess had loved him that way too.  She knew he was a soldier who’d had to do terrible things, yet she’d always been proud of him. 

 _And how did I thank her?  By leaving her alone in a city that was being bombed all to hell, by leaving her alone to die_.  _I didn’t deserve her.  I don’t deserve Harold, either_.

For a moment, Reese couldn’t answer Finch.  The words caught in his throat.  He’d promised himself he’d do better by Harold than he had by his poor wife.  Yet here he was, contemplating doing something that might hurt Harold as much as leaving Jess had done.  And here he was, thinking of killing himself if Harold threw him out afterwards, which would leave Harold vulnerable and far from home, without anyone to protect him.

But what choice did he have?  He longed to say that he wished he didn’t have to do this, and that he could only hope Harold wouldn’t hate him for it when it was done.  But this time, he stifled the words ruthlessly.  He’d said too much already.  He wasn’t going to make the same stupid mistake twice, or make himself look like more of an idiot than his careless words already had.  There was no point in telling Harold his regrets, or what he meant to do – or in pleading for mercy for it, either.  Harold would just worry even more, and try to talk him out of it; and that wasn’t possible.

Besides, he’d learned long ago that mercy was not for the likes of him.  He was a killer.  It was why Harold had chosen him:  to do things like this, that decent people couldn’t do.

Sure, Harold had asked him not to kill, and he’d promised not to murder the Nazis he found.  He meant to keep that promise.  But he’d never promised Harold that he’d spare Stills, because he’d never dreamed that he’d find him again.  He wasn’t a Nazi target that Harold had chosen; yet like them, he was a war criminal who both the SAS and the Resistance had sought and would’ve executed, if they could’ve found him.  But against all odds, years later and half a world away, Reese had finally found him instead. 

He didn’t know if stumbling across Stills like this was mere coincidence, a bizarre twist of fate, or his destiny.  But in that moment, it seemed rather like the latter.  Reese had always been a practical, not a superstitious man.  But the way he’d found Jerry years after the war was over, in Argentina of all places, and in Fusco’s police station to boot, when he hadn’t even been looking for him….  It almost seemed like there were larger forces at work in all that than mere chance.  It was certainly strange that he’d found him when he was probably the only person in Argentina who knew all the crimes Jerry had committed, and also likely the only man who still bore the scars of one such crime himself.  It was also hard to describe the sensation he felt when he looked at Jerry.  It was such enormous, overpowering rage, he could barely resist killing him.  It went beyond anything he’d ever felt before, even in the heat of combat.  It was like a hundred voices were all screaming at him to kill Jerry with his bare hands.  Maybe he was nuts, but it felt like the ghosts of all the men whose deaths Stills had caused were crying out to him for vengeance.

Whatever was behind his discovery, destiny or something darker, there was only one thing he could do about it.  As an ex-SAS soldier and former ally of the Resistance, as a man who’d survived a war that’d killed so many good people, including his own wife, it was now his duty to mete out the justice that the SAS and the Resistance had been unable to deliver for so long. 

Instead of telling Harold any of that, when he could finally speak again, Reese told a truth of a different kind by echoing Finch’s promise back to him.  It was the only kind of mercy he knew how to give:  a truth that didn’t wound.  Besides, just in case things with Stills went sideways and he didn’t come back from their encounter, he wanted to tell Harold how much he cared, one last time.  “Always,” he answered softly.  Translation:  _I’m always careful for your sake, Harold.  Because I love you_. 

He wasn’t sure if he hoped that Harold could decipher the meaning behind that word or not.  But Harold was brilliant, and amazing at deciphering what little Reese said, so maybe he would.  Maybe at least he’d understand enough of his last message to know that Reese loved him as a friend.  That would have to do.  He’d already decided it was  better if Harold never knew the real depth of his feelings, after all.

It was time for him to go.  He had to move, before he was discovered or his target got away.  He had to return Hirschfeld’s file and try to shadow Stills and Fusco, if they hadn’t left already.  Goodbye Harold, he thought, his heart aching.  Then he hit the button on his watch that cut off his radio signal to Finch. 

But as he headed out of the men’s room, terror walked with him. 

_I could lose Harold._

The very thought was agony, a shadow over his soul.  He couldn’t believe that when he’d come here, he’d thought this was such an easy mission.  It didn’t feel like that anymore.

Reese kept going, his steps heavier, a man moving through heightened gravity now.  Or maybe walking with ghosts.  The back of his head ached where he’d banged it into the wall repeatedly.  He hoped it wasn’t bleeding, and settled his hat over it just in case.  Otherwise, he ignored the pain.  It was nothing compared to what he’d known in the past, anyway.  Duty was a weight he bore in silence, as he’d always done.  No one else here knew what Stills was and what he’d done; or if they did, they didn’t care.  No matter the cost, it was up to him to end it.  To finish Stills off, once and for all.  For his own sake, and the sake of all the brave men who’d died because Jerry had betrayed them too.

He thought of those men as he headed back to find Jerry.  Some of them had been brave comrades in arms who he’d liked, and who he still mourned.  He wondered if it was somehow possible that their phantoms walked beside him now, unseen but wrathful, waiting like the innocent for him to do what they could not, as he headed to what would probably be his last meeting with Jerry.  If they were here, he wouldn’t fail them; and if they weren’t, at least he wouldn’t fail himself.  Most important of all, he’d keep Harold safe. 

He thought of Jessica too.  He always thought of her.  He wasn’t sure if he hoped she was still with him or not.  He didn’t want her to see what he was about to do.  He’d always been grateful that she’d never seen him kill.

 _If you are here, Jess, please forgive me_.

His face was shadowed and grim as he headed back down the hall towards the squad room where he’d last seen Stills and Fusco. 

The dead are gone, but they still have so much power over the living, he thought. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say to everyone reading this, Sorry it took me so long to finish this chapter! But this is a complex story, and my life has gotten much busier lately. I do want to continue it as I can, but anyone following this will just have to be patient with me, and wait in between chapters now. Sorry about that. At least this is a much longer chapter than the last few were. I can only hope you enjoy the story enough to make up for the long waits. : ) Also, if you are still enjoying this, please comment. It helps give me the motivation to keep writing. : )


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